The coming of the prince
by SAINTIXE56
Summary: 3 parts story. Season 4. Rollo tries to stand in the way of the Heathen Army led by Bjorn to protect Paris; Gisla is unsure to trust the man know as the crazy bear that the weak Emperor she calls Father has given her as husband. Bjorn has forgotten a man's duty is to fight for his family. The Gods play a very long game as Lagertha & Ragnar will discover. Reviews please. Thanks
1. Introduction

It takes a lot of events to transform a concept into a product available for all to see. Babies undergo the same trials. Babies born to a couple bound by love. First one needs lots of love and loads of patience, and then comes the revelation that in less than a year time, the duo will have to care for a new member of the household. Finally, comes the big moment where men cannot fight the battle their mate goes through Unarmed, aided by the single shield of their love, she will push to life a noisy, bloodied very small warrior. Surrounded by the protection of the pack, the cub and his mother will rest while the great wolf, husband and now father will make sure nobody dares to threaten his family.

M Hirst has given to all his characters children but to one. Yet, we know this little mite will change History. Today, the sovereign who sits on the throne of England is her descendent. Historical Rollo would live to have two children: a boy and a girl. Like the TV Series has given to Ragnar and Lagertha Bjorn and Gydda.

While M Hirst is still filming the wedding of the 9th Century, it is our duty as fans of the show and Rollo+Gisla shippers to get a taste of what Love implied in the Days of the Vikings. Including the arrival of this cute newcomer who will give his name to the heir of the actual Prince of Wales.

William, you are called to centre stage.

Story in 3 parts.

If you like this pitch, please tell me. I would enjoy reviews and messages. Otherwise, it feels quite cold, actually lonely to write without feed-back


	2. Part 1 Chapter 1

After the courtiers had inspected the nuptial bed, the spouses had separated. What Paris was counting as high born ladies surrounded the princess so thickly that all the male attendants including Rollo was pressed to leave. It was as if a colourful and perfumed tidal wave had taken his wife away leaving him desolate and empty-handed on a lonely beach.

In hesitating words, Sinric informed him that every action, every segment of the lives of the Imperial family which from now on included Ragnar's brother was submitted to a disembodied yet almighty powerful being called Protocol.

Every morning at such a time, the princess would be found at such place doing such thing; her afternoons would be following the same routine. Now that she was married, the routine had changed but Gisla would have to submit just the same having no say in the flow of her days. Rollo would be met after his ablutions with the Master of Ceremonies.

It was not enough that the events of the previous night would be preying on him; now, he was just about as prisoner of the palace as the Parisians had been of their high walls when his people have been leading the siege? The bear stood up, waking up from his trance. No man… not even Ragnar had dared to order him about in the privacy of his own home. Imperial protocol and Frank ceremonies be damned: he was a free North Man beholden to none. Siggy had never ruled over him; for Gisla she better not try. As for doing … doing what?

Ablutions. After last night… physical consumption of the rites of marriage, one takes a bath.

What did they think, these Franks? Did they hold him a savage? Naturally, he would wash the stains of the night! All Sinric had to do was the call the servants to bring a large tub, pour hot water and he would pay his respects to the hygiene part of court's life.

Not here. The servants are preparing your bath in the Imperial pools.

Biting his lips for having forgotten Lagertha's description of the exotic bath house which was making the delight of the king of Wessex, Rollo gave his assent to Sinric. The two men followed the servants who wore liveried tunics. Some subtle details must give out who was leading and who had the most menial position but this was what Sinric had to deal with in this invisible battle against the real ruler of Frankia. Sinric would learn informing in turn Rollo while Rollo would decide whether to agree with or not!

This morning journey to the Imperial baths had its use for the Vikings. Rollo's men, his closest companions followed him, concerned the Franks might prepare an unforeseen trap against their leaders. Though, from the sedate pace of the palace staff, if a nefarious plan was brewed, it must have been one of the slowest ever planned to be.

Curtains were lifted, revealing hidden doors; bows replied to bows. Soldiers opened doors, guards paid respects. The bear started to wonder if they were going to cross the palace by its widest length when finally they reached two heavy bronze doors silently opened by more servants.

This time, the murmur of voices Norse and Frank stopped as the gap between the two doors widened apart. A long prolonged silence from the North Men as the servants went business like tending each at their selected task.

Day light was coming from an opening of the ceiling through the roof revealing the lower details. Tall columns like in Wessex nut this time it was marble upon marble, of different shades and grains. As thick as oak trunks, taller than ship masts bathed by pools of different shapes. Recesses of unknown functions stood in their bowers as for the walls, they were made of gold!

The wall frescoes, he knew. Ragnar who was not interested in them and Lagertha who could give only Egbert's dismissive reply to her query. Romans … giants… Giants indeed! Was this the land Odin's enemies were coming from? If Odin and his people lived relegated up North in snow and biting winters… did it imply the Gods had … lost to the Giants? The thought was heretical but … if Franks were enjoying the best of the bargain, the question was raised as who had been defeated?

Frescoes on the walls and small squares of gold drafting on them the stories of … which Gods. At close range, the Norse Men recognized mosaics. Mosaics as in St Stephen, the Paris cathedral which had held but yesterday the wedding which had united Rollo to Emperor Charles' s only child.

The church walls were golden but their designs were clumsier. Just as colourful but not as elegant. Did devout kings serve their comforts more than the respect they owed to their one God? As for the statues, whoever they represented were a cypher for Rollo? One man… one God got his attention.

The divine being it was embodying was tall and bearded. Very tall, the male … god… was holding a big wooden stick while an animal pelt was resting on his shoulders, front paws knotted on his chest. The head of the animal, jaws apart was covering his hair. All in all, it was as if … the Franks had seen, really seen what a berserker, a divine berserker looked like? Rollo's large hand went caressing the cold marble.

Sinric, ask them who this man is?

The little Norse man was at this time occupied at explaining to Rollo's warriors to avoid cutting off the mosaic little squares while trying to avoid a clash with the Imperial servants outraged by the Norse men's disrespect to one of the private apartment of their king.

One day would come where he would not need Sinric but not today. What must have been the head of the servants replied quickly and Sinric gave this answer.

He is Hercules, son of Jupiter.

This time, Sinric went on asking question of his own to the Frank as he knew Rollo would want to know who this Jupiter was.

He is a God. Not a God. A demi-God son to the King of the Gods. Jupiter.

Now the Frank was becoming voluble and it was like Sinric and the servants were having a proper conversation until the little North man turned around.

The baths are hot, cold and tepid. Sadly, as the chief engineer died of the pestilence during the siege, his team is having difficulties in the repair of the… heating system. They will warm up stones to give you a sweat … like our saunas. … What?...

The Frank was talking fast and Sinric was valiantly trying to follow. They were also to bring jugs of boiling water. Rollo and his companions could enjoy the baths as long as they wished. Fresh linen was at their disposal to dry up and scents were ready too.

The warriors looked at each other surprised. Scents from merchants traded in Cordoba. Bought in Constantinople. Brought back from Baghdad. Mercifully, the siege had not been long enough to deprive Paris from perfumes and spices!

Making their bows, the retinue of servants slowly retired behind another curtain to another hidden passage way when Rollo raised his voice.

Who are these Gods? Who are these Gods nobody speaks about? Where are their temples?

Faithfully, Sinric translated to be met with affronted gazes. The reply was curt. A sharp nod and the servants were gone. His question had met with unadulterated hostility.

There is only one God and they are all good Christians. Not pagans like … us…


	3. Part 1 Chapter Two

Paris Palace is located in 2015 where the modern Palais de Justice is standing. In 845 AD, it was already 500 years old. Romans built buildings to last. Charles home had been the Imperial dwellings of Emperor Julian of the Constantine dynasty. Julian would have enjoyed the privacy of his own baths as emperors did! Aachen palace was one of the many palaces Charlemagne called his own: honesty obliges to admit that Charles simply took ownerships of previous palaces themselves built of Roman villas rehabilitated by the Merovingian dynasty.

In fact, Charles bloodline was nothing but dignified usurpers. Charles would probably beg to differ. Carolingian times were rough and cruel as Desideria, his Lombard ex-wife was soon to learn. Having visited Aachen and looking to visit another of his numerous people this summer, I am happy to confirm that Carolingians loved their mosaics just as much as Byzantines did.

For the Gods, the Gods of Rome, evangeliaries were decorated with vignettes of Apollo and Diana; references in daily language would refer to the old Gods. Gospels would be adorned with iconography pertaining to said Gods. Franks were Christian; the old Gods receded in the background of literature.

Charlemagne supposedly learned how to write at a late age. Which is quite surprising considering that the previous dynasty had dabbled in poetry, music, legal debates and certainly writing taking an interest in the alphabet to allow Latin to accommodate Frank Germanic words.

We must never forget a lot of people had reasons to darken the ages before Charlemagne to justify the very existence of the dynasty.

The princess was walking among the wounded. Bjorn's attack was been severe. The troops sent by Paris had saved the day but their arrival had been almost too late. Rouen had ever seen such a battle at the foot of its walls.

The old city was not as renowned as Paris; its siege not as long but unlike Paris the wrath of the North Men had been defeated by its good citizens. Helped by Charles's allies. Yes, it was true that the Normanni had entered Paris by treachery; equally, it was true some of the heathens had remained in Neustria trying to live off the countryside. The city dwellers of Frankia, the Frank farmers were agreeing with their king: worse was coming. More raids, more North Men. Waves after waves of long ships like an unending plague of locusts robbing gold. Gold of reliquaries, gold from torched monasteries… Rapping nuns, killing soldiers and any man standing to protect his family. It was feeling like the fall of the Old Empire; soon the Millennium would come. Was it the heralded End of Times?

Then something unbelievable had happened. The beleaguered Franks have heard of an unbelievable event. Something which raised more eyebrows in the realm that the death of the Great Emperor. Women wept and men groaned. It was like adding insult to injury. Charles, that was the emperor had married his last surviving child; his one and only daughter… oh, the shame, oh, the pain! King Charles, grand scion of Charles the Great… Charles, heir to Charles the Hammer had married his daughter … oh the grief, oh the sorrow! … Charles the weak, Charles had married the noble maid who had held the Oriflamme of Blessed Denis the Martyr on top of Paris city walls, rallying her people, saving the City by the Seine … oh weep Frankia, oh turn in your grave bloodline of Pippin … Princess Gisla, born to the purple…. Gisla, the most delicate… Gisla, the finest flower of Frankia … had been married off to a monster!

A man-beast! A heathen! A Normanni! A vile creature called Rollo.

The whole country was sick, violated in its deepest. Revelation that the Norse warrior had been one of the crazy invaders who tried battering Paris bare chested was vaguely baptized had made no difference in the thinly hidden hostility Rollo and his men read in the eyes of every Frank who come to cross theirs. They knew they were stronger; they also knew they were regarded as savages. Fear and hate were their constant companions. The princess was behaving like one expects a prisoner to be in chains. The only person to be actually sincerely happy of the situation was Charles the Fool.

Charles betrayed by his half-brothers had decided to bestow on Rollo and his berserkers a duchy, friendship and a duchess of royal extraction. The Eastern emperor had almost suffered a heart attack on news of his niece nuptials; as for his nephew the King of Italy, he had ordered the bells of his churches to ring the death toll. The king of Lotharingia on his inside had taken his own court into deep mourning.

While it was true Rollo did not speak fluently Frank as Sinric, he had taken to their language like Ragnar had taken to Athelstan's native tongue. Franks were unhappy, his wife was deeply wounded and Franks and her wife were not silent in their despair. To their discharge, they were not aware that Rollo understanding of Frank was a lot better than his thick accent trying to speak a language which united one spoken by priests, a patois blending an older Frankish made of Gaul and Roman Legions Latin and a city lingo combining Aristocratic Frank and urban slang!

Of his wife's despair, he was fully aware. Again and again, he had tried to bridge their differences to no avail. Paris had been raided through a trick but its walls had not surrendered. His wife's own walls were resisting his obstinate attempts to win her over. The Seer's words were his only hope: one day, he would be happy and he would be happy with her. All he had to do was to be patient. All he had to do was to wait.

Franks waited expecting a spring of nightmares; Rollo and his men waited Ragnar's return and his rage at their betrayal. Charles waited praying in his chapel that he had not sacrificed his daughter in the vain hope of saving Paris.

Franks and Normanni trained, each on their side. Odo rode back and forth trying to appeal to Charles's brothers. Their hate was as ever vigilant while their anger impotent as it was made it unbearable for them to accept Gisla's fate.

The only person who was unperturbed by the coming of spring was Gisla, There were so many tears one could shed that at one point, one just begged for death. Gisla was still alive but something seemed broken. A ghost was walking in the great halls of Paris; a shadow of a princess hoping Death would free her from her misery.

Rouen being his capital. Rollo moved to his own ducal mansion. Dragging along a reluctant wife. Training his people, Franks included. Franks had not taken to the way of the bear warriors, had raised shocked eyebrows to the wolf warriors. Vikings have smirked at the way Franks trained. Good but not good enough for North Men. Smirking until the North Men had remembered Paris….

Rouen stood by the Seine not surrounded by it. Rollo had ordered scouts to bring him back as much information they could gather about the particularities of the city surroundings: woods, creeks. Meadows, marshes. Each detail of the land counted.

Sir Roland, as captain of the princess's guards had been standing in front of the North man who was walking back and forth like a great feral beast in a cage.

They will not make the same mistakes again.

We shall use different weapons.

We shall have need of a lot more fire.

Fire?

The surprise Rollo could read on Roland's saturnine face was sincere. This was when Rollo had started to respect the Franks; battle to them was not limited to sheer physical strength. Battle was a game where intelligence could outwit a stronger enemy by inventing weapons said enemy had not thought of. Ragnar had met defeat under a rain of fire; Bjorn as it seemed it was his nephew who was the designated chieftain of the coming raid was to meet a rain of stones inflicted by ballistae.

Spring came. Frantic fleeing people from the coast told them of Bjorn's rage at learning his uncle betrayal. Soon he would reach Rouen. Soon. On the morning of the battle, Rollo was astonished to meet his reclusive wife. None the less, he knew his manners. Bowing deeply, he held her fingers close to his lips but refrained from kissing them. He knew better than to engage a lost battle against the court protocol. Had she loved him, he would have fought this dead weight over their shoulders. As it was, he could not care.

Wife?

Do your duty to my people; I shall abide by mine.

Upon which words, she had left. Leaving this ache of unacknowledged regrets behind her. Live without her love he could; live without her trust was unbearable. Not that she was a bad duchess. She cared for her people; she was fair to his. But she was like these mirages at sea, never to be grasped yet constantly reminding him of a thirst he could not satisfy.

The locusts hit Rouen. Bjorn's warriors, wave after wave, relentlessly attacked the city by the River Seine. The shadow of a bear was high above Rotomagus and a high tide rose ready to swallow it.

Rollo and his warriors fought like demons; Roland and his soldiers fought and prayed. In the little cathedral, a lonely princess prayed for her two people.

Traitor!

It would have been better for you to die in Paris!

You are betraying your own kin!

How could you abandon your own family?

The waves were asking, shouting again and again the same questions. To Rollo and his men. At one point Bjorn reached the point where his uncle was standing and the two warriors fought. This time, Bjorn did not spare his uncle and the great wolf felt the song of steel cut in his flesh. Though it would take a long time before the impudent cub would become dangerous, it was none the less humiliating. The Nordmanni were fighting the North men like devils yet the outcome was not clear. Carrions were not ready yet to assemble when the horns of fresh troops coming from inland were heard. Bjorn wisely decided to recoup and left; leaving behind him scattered about the bodies of his slain. The Franks would bury them in common graves. Unmarked while the Christian dead would get all their attention. This was the fate of Odin's children if they were unlucky to fall on Christian ground. As if Odin cared about where one died; if one died with honour in battle! Christians! Fools!

Rouen was free. For how long? In the solitude of his own rooms, Rollo was trying to stitch the deep cut in his right arm. Memories of Torstein were playing in his mind. He had to stitch, he had to clean. He had to prevent infection! Was Gangrene the fate the Gods had in mind for him? The Seer had promised happiness. Since he was unhappy, deeply unhappy… therefore his fate was not to die today or tomorrow. His attempt at stitching was not particularly successful: he was tired; he had bled more than he should. Sighing deeply, he tried to focus again on the needle and the gaping wound when he heard a noise behind his back.

Go away!

He growled like the angry wolf he was. His pack has fought well; his Franks had fought well. The women of his warriors, their Frank wives and concubines were nursing the wounds of their men. All in all, he was proud of his pack.

The noise came closer.

Leave now!

The people who had entered… had violated his seclusion, were not paying attention to his order. Baring his teeth, he turned around to face his wife and 3 of her servants carrying a chest.

Put it here, on the board. Near me. Thank you. Now, you may leave.

As if she had been dumb to his order, she sat… Gisla… the princess…. The woman who had stood up to Ragnar on Paris walls sat by her bemused husband. Opposite to him, on the same bench. Separated by his wounded arm.

This chest belonged to my mother. Every time Father went to war, Mother and her nursing chest would follow. Now, let me see this arm?

As if her life had been spent in an infirmary, Gisla – Frankia finest flower – assessed her husband wound like she had done this all her life.

What sort of thread are you using to stitch this?

Doe tendon. Lower hinds.

Gisla's eyes rolled back like Rollo had given a very stupid answer.

Let me guess? Ivory?

Walrus.

Shaking her head in disbelief, his wife rummaged in the stern looking chest. Smiling soon as she proffered to his inspection a yearn of silk and a needle in metal. Proceeding to inform Rollo that "It" has been brought to incandescence on St Gunthram's day, she quickly threaded the needle.

Blessed be my ancestor, your wound will heal shortly. But you will need rest. You have been bleeding like a pig! As for your scar, I will do my best but I do not promise this horrible tattoo will be straight. Whoever cut you, was very angry at you!


	4. Part 1 Chapter 3

She could be frighteningly serious, this young wife of his. Very matter-of-fact, taking for granted nobody would dare to deny her; would ever dream to question her. Siggy… Siggy was the same. Knowing her way, of wise counsel and perfectly able to tell him face to face he was an idiot. How did Siggy look when she was younger? As young as this woman he called in the secret of his heart his own shield maiden? He could not remember how Siggy was before the day he chose to take a look at the Earl's consort. Haraldson widow had entered his life from the moment Ragnar had decided to sail west. Before Siggy, his companions had been light skirts who asked no questions and expected nothing from him. Pleasure had been his guiding light for so long. Before… before there had been Lagertha. Lagertha, the woman who had broken him when she had rejected him for Ragnar. Lagertha, the noble shield maiden, Siggy the cunning lady of Kattegat and now Gisla. As high born as one could dream one, as noble and wise as the two other women of his life and just as reluctant as they had been to enter him in their lives.

Focused, needle in hand, the princess was trying to close some muscle back to some unity. Silent, she was doing this red needlework with patience hiding behind the tight lips of attention, a mind which was reliving again and again the events of the battle. The Northmen at the gates of Rouen.

Unlike her father, she was seeing no alliance with the Normanni who had but stayed behind Ragnar to prey on her people. Spring coming, they would bite the hand who had fed them in winter. Rollo would welcome his brother with open arms and… and it had not happened. The Normanni were not the North Men. Just as wild and feral, but loyal…

The Norse warriors had fought each other for days, the cathedral belfry had for days end seen a solitary figure watching down, hidden to all how men fought and died. Only the doves and the crows which were sharing the bell tower were to know that the figure had gasped when Bjorn's steel had injured his uncle. Nobody would ever know that the shadow had run down the steep stairs to try and reach the wounded. Nobody would know that upon hearing the horns announcing relief, the shadow had shuddered and cried out. Only the statue of the Blessed Dado would know whose hand it was, who wiped her tears, slapped her cheeks from their frightened pallor.

Doing the best she could, her needle was entering the flesh down and up trying to keep the pagan tattoo of some creature standing on its hinds intact. Her plait pushed to the right was brushing her husband chest in a soft tickle; her breath was like the soft blow of a baby asleep. It was peace; it was Hell.


	5. Part 1 Chapter 4

When the needle enters his skin, it is but a little prick, Unpleasant but he has known worse. Soon enough in the days and weeks to come, he will know worse as his stash of mushrooms, of magic mushrooms is almost gone and the forests of Frankia do not grow them. Today, he can handle the pain and save what is left from the bag, Today her presence numbs his skin.

Today it is her presence which tortures him. Too kind, too gentle. Too close. Trusting when there is no trust between them. Comfortable when each interaction is suspect of hidden meanings, Straight-forward pain is better as pain he knows. This breath against his skin is worse than Bjorn's anger. His nephew was disgusted by him and she… she feels pity for him. Her pity is unbearable.

He lifts his right arm to allow her to carry on uniting the two lips of his wound noticing how close her own lips are from his injured limb. She moves on the bench to get a closer look; so close to him and so far. They move together like the complicated mating flight of eagles. Gisla close yet unassailable like in Paris.

Since their wedding night, he has tried again and again to get through her to meet disdain. To meet rejection. Worse, to meet obedience. She let him have his way, ignoring him. A statue of marble. A creature of ice. Today, she is not ignoring him. Somehow, he must have done something right as she feels compelled to feel gratitude. These stitches are her way to say thank you. Thanks he does not want. What he wants is a woman to run to his arms, a live woman who cherishes him. Not a grand lady who is grateful and will forget about him a few instants later. Crumbs, he does not want.

So close; so far.

"Stop!… Stop it now. I can complete the work!"

Gisla looks at him as if she cannot understand the words.

"I cannot bear it any longer."

This time, the words get understood. Yet, she does not comply. Persisting in her cruel needlework, she insists. Until her husband's right hand grasps her own.

"Stop. Now."

Nobody denies the Princess of Paris, least of them the semi-heathen who is her husband. The Duke demurs because of the blood loss. Because of a fever. Because of the battle tiredness. She persists.

"I said Stop!"

His lips bare his teeth. Like a snarling wolf before the animal attacks.

"I… I cannot stand it any longer."

What she understands gets him sighing as Gisla, this wife of his, starts fumbling in the chest looking for medicinal herbs to soothe the sting of the needle. Taking the dressing of his wound is too painful; the Frank woman looks for some draught to give him comfort. Comfort, he gladly accepts he needs. But not of this kind.

Growling, he concedes some sort of defeat. The Truth must be acknowledged.

"It is not about this cut."

Now, she really does not understand. Is there another wound which needs nursing? He must tell her. Now! Time is precious; once lost it will not be granted back. Frankia needs him; needs the great warrior to protect it from Bjorn and his men.

Enraged yet holding his calm by holding in his great paw her hand, he watches her tensely in a long silence, At long last blurting it out.

"It is not about the wound. Not about Frankia… It is about you."

A brief silence and he carries on.

"This kindness… I was not expecting. Your hate… your fear, I know. I know how to answer to them. But your kindness, I do not know. When you look at me…. like you were thinking…. this man is worthy of my respect. I do not know anymore what to do."

This is too much. He cannot bear it. It wounds, it is torture. It is like he was enduring the same fate of the Christ God. Crucified. Crucified by her. Yes, it is true: he cannot take it anymore.

From this long speech, Gisla does her best to try and make sense. Rollo's Frank is limited and her handling of Norse is skeletal. Though, one thing is sure. The North man who is most of times silent or shouting curt requests has this time, this first time ever spoken to her quietly about their couple.

And there is nothing she can do about it. But reassure him of her approval.

"You have done well. Very good. I am proud of you. You and your men. I mean our people. Father will be highly satisfied by your action. The people of Paris…"

Only Paris. Forever Paris. Her universe revolves around Paris, Frankia, the Empire. Never about the man who shares her bed. Never about his people who she calls hers with such revulsion. He is tired of Paris. Heartily sick of it. Of her, he will never tire.

Just like a woman giving birth for the first time, he tells her. Slowly, with halting words. He has to tell her. He must tell her. And it hurts. It cuts more than Bjorn's steel, this acknowledgment of his secret weakness.

"I want more. More than your respect. Your friendship is as bitter and cutting as the winter winds of my native land. I want more. I need more. More than anything, I need you… I need your love."

A long, so long silence ensues and he knows it is going so wrong. Why did he have to tell her? He should have been patient. Winning her friendship was such a great gift, such a treasure. Once again he has messed about. Once again he has failed… when he realizes she is answering so low it is almost a muttering.

"I do not love you. I cannot love you. One cannot love two men at the same time."

Charlemagne sarcophagus can be seen in Aachen at the Cathedral museum.

Merovingians were supposedly issued from a Sea God called the Quinotaurus. A sea creature with the head of a bull. When Childeric grave was found in 1653, the father of Clovis and son of Meroweg (the child born from the divine intercourse) had a plaque with a bull's head buried with him. Another legend was to give the Franks a Trojan origin as early as the 7th century.

Carolingians were but upstart. Their glorious title of mayor of the palace is at the origin of the word majordomo. Like Downton Abbey. A butler combined with the responsibilities of the agent/steward of the estate.

If Franks did not write but in Runes in their days in Germanic Forests, they got quickly the gist of Latin. The elite learned how to read and write following the classical Latin 7 classes cursum. The German title of Graf (equivalent to count- earl) comes from Graphion, a title as early as the 6th century. Far from being uneducated as later legends, the Franks whether native or associated (Gallo-Romans) were educated. The notion of a palace school did not wait for Charlemagne to start it.

Merovingian Franks started to record their legends before the days of Charlemagne; though it is from his time that the epic stories and songs/poems were started to be recorded.

Rollo never asks about a potential child because … you will have to wait to know why. Rest assured there is a why which will get its answer and there will be a happy end.

For Herakles, be patient. There are a lot of interesting things about him and they will be used in their own good time.

Patience. Do not forget: Rollo is a very patient man.


	6. Part 1 Chapter 5

How is it possible to be more stupid? The runes were on the wall from the very beginning. There is another man. There is always another man. There is Ragnar when all he wants is to be loved by his parents; there is Ragnar again when he meets Lagertha. Horik is in the picture when he remembers Siggy. Again in Mercia, there is this repulsion from Cwenthryth when he makes this asinine pass at the woman though it was but lust. There is always someone else. There is this man now.

"Tell me his name. Tell me the name of this man. How much you must have laughed with me about this cuck-hold husband of yours! Tell me his name!"

He shouts; he yells. He mostly barks fangs showing. The bitch, the bitch! How stupid…

"I don't know. The stars did not say. I do not know his name but I know he will come. This much I know"

This. Now this makes no sense. Surely, she cannot have… Surely she knows him. The man who has bedded his wife, the man who has stolen his shield maiden she must know. Yet she speaks like in a trance as if only a vision was the way for the lovers to meet.

"I do not know his name. I have never met him. It does not matter. The stars have said that once our eyes will lock, it will be love at first sight. The stars never lie."

The stars… what stars? There is no seer in Frankia. He knows; otherwise he would have visited one. What sort of madness is it? A wife who loves a man she has yet to meet in flesh, who does not know his name; this is absurd. Yet she persists, she weaves this silly tale on and on.

"He is a great prince. He will be a great prince. Naturally, he will learn to worship Christ as we all do here, west from Rome. People of Constantinople are unrestful about the proper way of praying God. Here, he will find peace. And he will fight for Father, for Frankia and Paris. He is such a great man, my prince of Constantinople."

One can be jealous of a real man; one can dismiss a foggy figure who has no name or face. When one hears Constantinople, one listens. Was she betrothed before…? Before his people set sail to raid Paris. This convolved tale makes sense now; as kings and emperors will it, in turn their heirs marry princesses. Envoys travel exchanging gifts, bringing back the information that the Emperor of Western Frankia has a daughter as wise as she is beautiful. A maid who is the perfect material for a prince. Smirking, he thinks he is hardly marriage material and this includes Kattegat….

Who cares about Constantinople, this boring hero has allowed the precious prize to slip through his fingers. Gisla is his wife. His wife and nobody, not even a prince born to this fabled land called Greece will steal her from him. Her love, he will win. As for the prince, if the fool dares to turn up in Frankia, the berserker will show him wolves do not share their mates.

"When was the wedding set to happen?"

This, he must know to prepare. Bjorn is but a distraction. He must obtain the vital information, get ready and get rid of the prince. Gisla does not notice how his husband's smile has turned ferocious. A great feral smile as bears can give before they strike. Lost in these happy memories, she carries on, oblivious that her husband's arms are slowly tightening around her like in the mortal embrace beasts give to their intended victim.

"I do not know. I have told you: I have never met him; nor do I know his name. The Romans of Constantinople are almost like heretics; we exchange envoys by courtesy. Nothing else. But he will come, my prince. Yes, he will come. The stars have said so."

Stars again. Stars. Stars are lights in the sky set by the Gods to guide the men from Midgard at night. Some seers pretend to see something else in their course. Christians do not approve of seers. She better tell him the truth!

As stung by a viper, Gisla wakes up from her trance. She does not lie; the stars have said… or rather her grandfather's astrologist. Not that he was really an astrologist. Rather a very old monk, who looked at the heavens above when night came to distract him. All he hears is there are seers in Frankia; naturally, Franks would be humiliated to call them seers.

"Tell me"

The words are whispered gently as if the wolf was gone leaving room for a wilful yet tamed ram. Tell him? Tell him what? Tell him of this prophecy, of this … astro… man, tell him how the prophecy was made. Tell him of the stars and of the Gods Franks hide.

Gisla looks at him as if she fears he is mocking her; but he is dead serious. He wants to know; really know…

Like all the tales of lore, it starts by a long, long time ago. Then a name is pronounced.

Rotrudis got married

The name he stores to dismiss it immediately as Rotrudis is a lady-in-waiting to his wife. To his much younger wife. A child, who is outraged, humiliated that it is the courtier but not the princess who is married first. It would not be the first time a child is to be married off to a grown man or another child; it seems the emperor has other plans for his daughter. It appears that if nuptials are to be, the emperor is looking for a bride for Gisla's … brother?

"Louis was still around. Everybody was happy… but me. Mother was busy ordering our palace of Quierzy to be ready for the wedding. I was so mortified; as if my parents were more concerned by this woman and her husband to be than by me. Louis was repeating constantly how the Count was on par to the valiant heroes of Roncesvalles… at the end, I ran away!"

How do little princesses run away when there are guards and sentries all over the Aula Regia? The Royal Great Hall must have been chuck full of courtiers, servants, soldiers. Children run fast; it remains their legs are short and any man can outrun them?

"I ran inside the palace. Courtyards after courtyards. Places not exactly forbidden to go to; but places… you know… places where adults meet for business. Boring rooms."

The little girl he is imagining would have long plaits along showing her ankles. A golden circlet around her head to mark her as of the royal bloodline. Servants must have been surprised yet known better than question the king's daughter. The child must have run, getting more and more lost until she had reached a courtyard.

"There was a garden which smelled divinely of summer. A medicinal garden with so many flowers. I stopped to look at it; this is where I met him. Brother Nithard"

Seers of the North speak to the Gods through stones and bones. This Nithard spoke to his through the stars, all the luminaries of the skies. Upon learning of the princess's distress, the old priest because it was an old and wise man, had shown her that her maid's wedding was a good thing good Christians should rejoice at.

"Nobody but God knows of what tomorrow will be done. Tomorrow her husband may die in battle fighting for your father; tomorrow she may die in childbirth… why should we not rejoice that Christ in his infinite wisdom gives them these small crumbs of happiness?"

Children are easily distracted especially when the main reason of their grief is plain jealousy. Rotrudis had found love; her parents were in love. Louis was planning to love his future wife… yet Gisla had no one to love. Brother Nithard had smiled at this candid confession.

"Love… Love is not something one will. Love comes without warning. It is a great gift granted by God and one does not choose who one loves. Even princesses."

Seeing storm gathering in the child's eyes, the priest had begged her highness to help the old man he was in lifting the basket where he has collected selected flowers and if she was in her generosity to help him take it to his rooms, he would tell her a great secret about Love.

"Love is powered by God and our ancestors, the ones who were pagan… you know, the ones who lived in Gaul before it became Frankia, before Denis, Martin, all the good apostles who taught our stupid forefathers to forget about the false idols … our ancestors were not different from us. Pagan and Christian alike, we all wish to be loved and love this one who loves us in turn. … Well our ancestors… they knew something dear bishop Hincmar, our great king favourite bishop, disapproves of"

Bishop Hincmar was not in the princess's circle of friends since he has lectured Gisla on raiding jam pots during a fast day. The little girl had sworn secrecy, avidly listening to her new friend's story.

The Gods, the old Gods Franks had worshiped before they became Christian have allowed their people to know of their fate by watching the stars. Stars told of the Future; stars predicted your destiny.

"Naturally, as a good Christian, a loyal Frank I do not search my own fate or of the emperor's but I study the stars for my... for our beloved country and sometimes for people I know."

When Charles's first born had been a daughter, the royal parents had been disappointed. A son was to resolve for once and for all the fate of the Western part of Charlemagne's realm. Charles, his grandson had had to fight to get his share of his father's realm. When at long last his wife had found her with child, great hopes were raised to be crushed as the heir was revealed to be a daughter…

"I do not agree with your father on this point. It is Marie, the Blessed Virgin who gave birth to our Lord, Jesus Christ. It is Helena who showed the right path to Emperor Constantine and Monica who saved the soul of her son the Blessed Augustine of Hippo. Girls, women are much useful. As such, I have searched for what the Twin Gods be it Apollo the Sun or chaste Diana the Moon have for you in store. Yes, Hincmar… what a fool he can be when he gets petty… would not approve but I have calculated your horoscope…. Now where is it?"

Nithard room must have looked a lot like the ram-shackled house called home by the Seer of Kattegat. The old man and his young guest had lifted boxes, opened chests, looked behind columns until Nithard had proffered a rolled manuscript and read aloud.

"Horoscope of her Royal Highness, the Lady Gisla, Princess of the Franks. True great-grand-daughter to Karolus Magnus, our blessed Western Roman Emperor"

He is impressed but it is not enough. So Franks have Gods. Gods they do not acknowledge; Gods remain Gods. Tempted as he may be to learn about these mysterious divine beings who are stuck keeping company to a God who calls Himself the One, Unique and True God, he prefers to know about this prophecy. Though, like most prophecies, it will be not understandable … as Lagertha says: they only make sense when it is too late…

She will meet a prince who will marry her. I will be shared love at first sight. A great man, a great warrior. He will pray God as they do in Frankia and he will be the faithful war hound to her father.

"He will fight the North Men. I know that much. My prince will defeat your people."

This paragon of virtues will be a dead man before he walks on these shores. Rollo does not share what is his. It is going to be prophecy against prophecy. Norse Gods against the Gods of the South; once again, he will climb these walls and if it takes treachery, who cares? All is fair in love; He will keep Gisla at his side just like he but holds her now in his bear's embrace.

"Your seer does not say it is a prince from Constantinople"

Now it is her turn to be angry. Nithard said so. She remembers exactly word for word what the old man has told her.

It will be a prince from Constantinople. Yes, it will be. Nithard has read her horoscope and explained that it cannot be but a prince from the Golden City which sits between Asia and Europe.

"I see Mars: it will be a warrior and I see Neptune. Yes, this is important. Apollo is long in some shadows but he will soon be freed. I think it is a prince of the Southern empire as really I cannot see who else it could be. Yes, your Highness: you will marry a prince from the Sea"

Defiant, she looks at him; at her husband who is mistakenly a North Man. The enemy of her people until it dawns on her what she has said. And her face freezes in horror. While a huge smile starts dancing on Rollo's face.

Prophecies make sense when it is too late to change them. Prophecies are understood when the people who are concerned understand them at long last.

"No, it cannot be!"

She covers her mouth as if she was trying to swallow back the future Nithard has read for her in the stars. But it is too late, way too late. On the other hand, Rollo is blessing these Gods; these kind and generous Gods who have fated his sweet love to be his wife. How inconsiderate has he been to them? Gods make alliances between themselves.

As such, it is perfectly logical that Odin, Thor and Freyr would parlay with these… the names he cannot pronounce but his heartfelt thanks are sincere. North Gods on his side agreeing with Gods of the South on her behalf. Frankia is his destiny and Paris his future. How must the Gods have sniggered when they have heard him asking belligerently his brother who was this Paris!

"No! No! I cannot… I will not betray my people"

Poor love. Sweet love. It is too late. The noble doe is in the embrace of the great bear; nothing will ever free her. The wolf has cornered his prey and the shepherd is unarmed against its fangs.

"The Gods have willed it. It is fate. There is no prince from Constantinople. Just a warrior. Lagertha says I am a great warrior; she would dispute the great man. A prince from the Sea… the betrothed the Gods have fated you is walking on your shores"

It is a weakened arm which moves, a tired hand which holds her chin up as his left arm keeps her fast to his embrace. It is his lips who move toward hers and this time, the man born in the North knows as he kisses her mouth that his bride is warming up to this spouse her Southern Gods have willed on her.


	7. Part 1 Chapter 6 End of part One

A mistake; better a misunderstanding. A prophecy lost in translation. Surely, good brother Nithard had borne no ill-will to the child princess. Certainly, he would wish her the best, the happiest of destiny. To the daughter of an emperor only a prince born to the purple could do. To the heiress of a log litany of Christian queens, only a true Christian could aspire to her hand.

\- "It cannot be. You… you are a pagan. You worship evil idols. You kill our priests, you spoil our churches. You live of rapines made of the riches we bestow gladly to the One and Almighty"

It is hard to remain focused on a debate about who is the true God when you hold tight against you what you cherish. What you have cherished for so long, doubting this gift would ever come your way. Rollo is busy rubbing his cheek against her scented hair; now he knows prophecies can come true and he is enjoying it to the max.

\- "…hum… I am a Christian. A real Christian. I have not lied to your father. I have been baptized, properly baptized… and a king, a Christian king can bear witness to it"

Yes, naturally, this semi-Barbarian king of the North of Britannia Major. A king… Supposedly… Yes, all right. A Christian. So, his Godfather is Aelle. Chlothar the Elder botn to two Christians was not exactly the embodiment of what a devout believer should be! Rollo may be a Christian, he is sorely lacking in displays of what a redeemed sinner is supposed to show.

When was the last time he confessed his sins? Rollo has never confessed his mistakes to anyone but the Seer. The old one and the new one. The one of his youth and the one who observes Kattegat like Odin ravens take notes of every of our moves.

\- "…ahem… I have not found time to be fully apprised of your customs. … err… I am a warrior, you see. There was this jarl. Jarl Borg…"

None of it. She is having none of it. A true Christian gives whole-heartedly his time to God; there is no time for a jarl. Duke or whatever name they use in his heathenish North. Rollo blesses her interruption as he doubts the man who spoke to a skull would get her approval.

\- "Then we had to obey Horik, our king who wanted to raid England"

Raids are not Christian. Poor people of the Great Isle, martyred, killed by heathens like him. Resenting very much her compassion for the soldiers of Wessex who have almost killed him, he broaches another subject explaining why he has been indifferent in the pursuit of true Christianity.

\- "Horik got envious of Ragnar. He wanted to kill my brother. Si… significantly, he brought to Kattegat secretly his men to attack us. I was still wounded grievously at the time, bit I fought for Ragnar. Not that he was thankful afterward…."

Traitors are to be punished. Ganelon, this most treacherous creature was torn alive between four fiery horses at Charlemagne commands. Rollo approves; he approves hiding a sigh of relief as he discovers Franks do not take kindly to people who betray oaths. True, it is not blood-eagling but tearing apart a man, a man just as Christian, just as Frank as they are tells him Gisla's people are not exactly meek Christians. There is the ideal and there is reality. Revenge being one.

\- "When were you last seen praying in church?"

His girl is stubborn; she is like a she-wolf who has found a scent and follows it wherever it is taking her. She wants to know not realizing she has to give up some of her own past life to accomplish what her God and his have agreed on.

\- "We returned to England as allies to the King of Wessex."

Ally sounds better than mercenary. Editing some details as the poisoning of Cwenthryth brother, he mentions the farming colonies.

\- "Egbert blessed in his Christian heart our farmers. You see, our people starve when the winters are long and the previous harvests are poor. Here, in your land, the soil is so rich… your God … I mean the Christ God says a good Christian shares with the needy"

Wessex, she knows. There were talks of an alliance between her and Egbert son. From his frown, she collects it is a good thing the heir of Wessex is safely tucked across the sea. Father... the King of Frankia has sent his counterpart, the Bretwalda, many relics as Christians do among friends of the same true faith. Relics… like the bones Floki has teased Athelstan when they have raided Winchester. Bones?

Bones of holy men and women. Relics of martyrs, of men who gladly gave their lives for God Almighty. The Very Highest has inspired them through love to surrender worthless mortal life for one eternal in paradise basking at His feet forever fulfilled by his Divine Love. Relics are more precious than gold and pearls for Christians…

\- "One man, a Christian was my brother's friend, He claimed to be born again before dying"

Athelstan was not martyred. He died naturally… Ragnar did not order his death. How can he lie to these serious-looking eyes? Athelstan the monk was found dead, his throat slashed. The evening before, Kattegat had learned of his betrayal. The monk had been seen throwing in the waters of the fjord his arm ring. A symbol of his fidelity to the king. If Ragnar had understood the reason beyond the action, some must have seen it as a betrayal to the Norse way of life. … to the Dark Gods…

\- "Was it … you?"

No. No, never. If it had been him, he would have killed Athelstan on the spot and he realizes that this is the wrong answer as Gisla pinches her lips and storms at sea are kinder than the one brewing in her eyes.

\- "I am a sinner. But I do not kill without taking responsibility for it. Murder exists in Kattegat like it does in Frankia. How can one forgive a coward who hides and lurks in the dark unable to admit his crime? I did not approve of Athelstan; I thought him a deceiver, a liar. Yet, it was he who found me barely alive after the battle. It was him who nursed me back to life and took me back to my people. Athelstan has never been my enemy. I think he was a good man. Woe to who killed him; my brother is like Odin. He is not of the forgiving kind"

How to explain the vital laws of vengeance to one whose God makes it a rule to forgive the sinner? He dives to her neck to rub his cheek to rub and some more like the wolf beast he is deep inside. This she allows… she knows he is the one promised to her by her God. The unlikely prince of the Sea. Simply, she has to come to terms with it. Since she is now silent about Constantinople, he guesses she is progressing in his direction.

\- "This Athelstan, he has a name of the English nation. Remind me of the realms you have rai… visited? Northumbria, Wessex … ah, yes Mercia. Mercia!"

She snorts as one would when one is presented warm meat. Mercia; Mercia ruled by a woman! Not only this land does not follow the natural order as Kings should rule and queens be the sweet illustration of their courts but the woman is a … and she stops.

\- "I have met her. She is quite something!"

Something no woman, no Christian woman wants to be. There are rumors about the Lady of the Mercians. Not contented by the assassination of her saintly brother, blessed Kenelm, she has accused her male relatives of horrible designs upon her virtue… as if Cwenthryth of Mercia had ever been found virtuous. They say things … things. Father who is not prone to gossip has informed his only child that the name of the queen of Mercia was not to be pronounced in his court. Less Gisla was told of the Mercian Jezebel, the better it was. More he hears of the Mercian, more Rollo is glad he has limited his admiration for her strong-will to words neutral enough to qualify whatever situation.

\- "Yes, your father is right. She is not at all the person I would recommend you as a friend. You are worlds apart."

Not a lie, then. Not a lie. Clueless about what sins the princess from England has committed to endure her father and her betrothed' stern disapproval, Gisla asks the one important question which is playing in her mind.

\- "Is she as beautiful as they say?"

Rollo smiles as he learns his she-wolf can be stirred by jealousy!

\- "As I say, I have met her and I do not think she is a Christian as you are. Yes, she is quite… no, she is very beautiful. I have seen her dancing… dancing in front of men covered in blood. Not really what one expects from a queen! Yes, some men will call her beautiful"

From a long time, from ever, the beauty of Cwenthryth has reached the Continent. From ever, her great beauty is the subject of songs and poems. Some are demure enough to be told near a chaste princess of Frankia. All make said innocent maid feel low as the short-statured girl would like to be admired for something else than her wisdom.

\- "Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. I care not for a woman who is unable to count her… her followers. I prefer my little she-wolf, my true shield-maiden. My 'shield-maiden as the world has never seen before, nor will see again'. The Seer, the old seer, he told me of you and I have been waiting for you ever since!"

Gisla is pretty; she will never be a great beauty; but her courage is unique, her will cuts like the best steel. Wise too and he loves how she looks. She is his mate, his soulmate. Since ever. Since the old seer told a very young warrior about Bjorn's age when his wandering father had taken him after he had been given his arm ring by the old Earl of Kattegat.

\- "Could it be? … Could it be you are not lying? Could it be you knew of me like I knew of you? I thought you were a prince from the Mediterranean Sea; did you think me as a warrior woman of our North?"

This time, he stores for real the name of this unknown sea. Just like he stores preciously the fact there is no more a prince of Constantinople. Now is the time to tell her that like her, he was foretold of his future a long time ago.

"When our young men come of age, when they start to need to shave (not that I shaved much in those days) our fathers take us to the Thing, to a … council. We swear on our honor to serve our earl, our prince and in turn he gives us this. An arm-ring. To remind us of what we fight for and for whom."

Barbatoria. She knows. Father had so many plans to celebrate the day Louis was to become a man. A pestilence came instead of the intended feast. Louis would never shave and her mother would never sit again on her own throne below her husband. A pestilence came taking with it so much joy and hopes; taking with it the will of her ruler but not his intelligence. Stealing his ability to decide, to choose leaving him bereft yet fully aware of his loss.

"What happened for you?"

The king had planned for his daughter the fate of his own sisters. She was to become a nun, a great abbess. As daughter of the Empire, no prince was high enough to aspire to her hand; as sister to a future king, it was best to lock her in a convent than allow a marriage with an ambitious foreigner. Many kingdoms have been endangered by these unions giving alien princes a foothold to the stairs to the throne. A pestilence came and the sole heir to Western Frankia was the girl sent away by luck, by God in his Mercy, in time to avoid to be stricken by the plague.

"There is nothing more to say"

He holds her, rocking her gently. She does not speak as there is nothing else to say. The girl, who had been sent to the convent entertaining rebellious thoughts, returned to court to find a father lost in a world he could not return from. The realm needed a king, needed a heir; the realm discovered a will behind the throne. The nuns carried on their mission which was to educate the princess; this time it was to educate the most trustful adviser the king could ever wish for. Charles came to rely on his daughter to choose, discern the best option, take the right decision. Cwenthryth has enjoyed the perks of kingship when it comes to lust and self-gratification. Gisla knows all the downfalls and uncertainties of a ruler who wants the best for his realm. There is no gratification for the princess of the Franks. Her dedication is taken as a given by her people. All for Frankia indeed. All the best, all of her time, all her instants are devoured by the great beast of Duty to the realm. Protocol is but an avatar of it. Lonely is the head which bears the reality of the Frankish crown.

\- "I apologize to having delayed in England. I should have come earlier."

She does not understand completely. But she knows what he means. So many times, she has prayed for the coming of her prince of Constantinople. He would come, he would save Frankia from its enemies, from her uncles, from the traitors who hide in the palace hallways like Odo … Her prince would fight and send to rout her enemies, freeing her from all this weight on her weak, so weak shoulders. The weight of a kingdom. The responsibilities of a crown.

"Barbatoria. Not that you have shaved much if my cheeks do not betray me. Have you ever shaved in your life?"

Laughing to her show of humor, he reassures her. Yes, he does … he does in a way. He cut his beard when it is too thick, too unruly. He grants her it has been a long time since the skin of his cheeks has felt the blade of a razor.

"In these days, I was so proud of my feeble stubble I let it grew. Then , Father took me to visit the Seer. The old Seer before the one we know. He threw the stones telling me I would be an honor to my father; that I would be a great man born to a great future. That I would find love from a woman yet to be born. I would recognize her at first sight for and I quote 'she will have the heart of a true shield maiden but a shield maiden as not yet seen nor to be seen again. A very courageous woman. Lucky Rollo, she will be high born indeed, sitting on the High Seat. From her, your bloodline will be a sea of kings'. Then he threw the bones and told me of the dangers to come…"

A shield maiden if you please. A wanton woman, loose enough to be fighting among men. A shameless woman lost to the gentle duties of womanhood, fighting, killing like men. She is not a shield maiden; beside these women are pagan. He stops her short before she turns to the prince of Constantinople.

\- "A shield maiden fights with a sword and a shield. I have known a man who went to battle armed only by his shield. His courage, his stubbornness gave us the timing of opportunity to attack and win this battle. He died like the true hero he was. You have the heart of a shield maiden: you are courageous. And I have not known before you and doubt will ever see again a warrior maid rallying her troops armed by a sole shield of a banner. You won the battle waged against your walls. You made your father, your people proud. You make me proud. And envious."

She does not need to know he has courted Lagertha because she is a shield maiden. Siggy will not be mentioned though she sat on the High Seat by Haraldson. As for Cwenthryth, being born to a king does not hide the Saxon shallowness when it comes to true kingship. What matters is the end of the prophecy. This part terrifies him.

\- "We shall have children?"

\- "Yes, we shall"

Not to her. Not to her, he will say that he is barren. Not to her, he will admit this tragedy. Women are made to bear children. Families are built by the love of a man and a woman when it bears fruit. When he had a chance, he took it like every man tries his luck. None of his women, none of his significant others has seen her belly enlarge. No slave fucked by boredom or anger has been impregnated; no whore of the taverns he has graced by his presence has called him to the thing asking him to take responsibility for her child to come. His seed is as clear as water. He is barren; from the beginning, he is not marriage material… He is not family material. The old seer has spared the youth from learning of this humiliating truth. Later, the seasoned warrior has come to realize he will have no heir, no family to call his own. It remains Gisla is his shield maid. Gisla with the same serious gaze as Gydda. Lagertha is wrong in thinking he would have loved to call Bjorn his son. It is Gydda he wanted to call daughter…

\- "We have all the time. The Gods have fated us and they will grant us children in their own good time"

Motherhood soon follows an enthusiastic groom. Gisla shivers at the thought and tries to raise the drawbridge like she did in Paris. Fighting the Gods is not dishonorable; he will allow her this battle. Man and woman alike wills are free. They have the right to express their wishes, to have desires. And they are free to get angry at the Gods when the Divine decides of a different fate.

He is a pagan; he just admitted it! And she is not a shield maiden. What is he thinking? How dares he to call her this name! She is Gisla, princess of Frankia. Who sits lower than the king; who hides behind doors when the king decides! Frank women are modest. They know their place unlike loose women who should know better. If she was to decide for her husband which she will not do as this choice is her father's … and he better not smile or remind her that she is married to the North man because of her father's very own decision, very much against her will… to try and woo her by calling her a disgusting name will not get him very far. And please, can he stop chuckling? There is nothing funny here.

He loves how she looks at him; his own, very own shield maid. His precious she-wolf who will not give up without giving a good fight. Ragnar fought a bear and a wolf to court Lagertha; his brother has to fight duty to a realm and faith to a god. This certainly makes him equals.

Frankia is all her love and she is a good Christian. Only a man who will fight the good fight to defend and protect Frankia while being a good Christian will obtain her regard. And … and it is not because he has sworn to her father to do these very things that he has won her! She knows men a lot more than he thinks! She is not a dupe though she may act like a cypher.

His attention caught, she proceeds. From the day Louis has passed away, the child princess has been surrounded by courtiers every man more avid than the other, more demanding. Her hand has been requested time and time again and again. Offers upon offers.

Her uncles have dared… dared to take upon themselves to advise their younger sibling that now was not the time to remarry and restart a civil war like their own father had done. God had willed him to be widowed; so be it! Their nephew was dead and they would in turn order masses to be read on Louis's behalf for his soul salvation from all the sins he had committed. Louis who was but a child of eleven years of age. What sins can a boy-child commit! What is this world where boys like her brother, like Kenelm of Mercia can have their good name blackened? Having taken care of their nephew and brother, her uncles had carried on their idiotic course. For their niece, the convent was indeed the right decision. In time, Western Frankia would be re-united as it had always been the plan to the great empire.

Upon learning his brothers had made up this plan discounting his will and unsurpassed desire to be a pain in the neck to his older siblings, Charles had decided that his daughter would not return to the life of a recluse. She would live in court; she would become his adviser. Better, she would marry! Salian law be damned! She is his only living child. She is from now on his sole heir. Certainly from what he knows a truer heir to Charlemagne than his own nephews!

The court of Pavia and Aachen bemoaned at this folly with no joy to their remonstrance. Charles's heir was now Gisla. Western Frankia would have a ruling Queen like Mercia; albeit this time a virtuous one. Of the madness which had seized her father she knows no remedy. She only knows the consequences.

A prisoner in her own palace, hostage in her father's hall. From the day Charles has called her his one and true heir, she cannot set out without guards around her to prevent an abduction. Ladies-in-waiting surround her to prevent a would-be-lover trying to contact her. Worse, all these men who look at her, who for some would literally try at undressing her from her clothes, all these looks who get through her, all these men who weigh her who could not care for her if she was just a count's daughter hunt her night and day. They all want her hand; all profess undying love and profound admiration. She is beautiful they say; her mirror begs to differ. She is so intelligent they reply; the minutes recorded by the palace clerks of her decisions show she is mistaken in her choices more than once. She is but an unimportant princess who finds herself without justification at this place of honor without deserving it. In truth, it must be Satan who is toying with her. She should not be heir to the crown and all these professed lovers would turn her back to her if Louis was alive. She is not duped; she is nobody's dupe. She will serve her country with the best of her abilities and she has no time for fools, cheats, liars. No time at all for men who think they can fool her. Who do they think they are? They are all like Odo… Odo who actually dared to hold her hand asking her again and again to marry him. Odo, this disgusting man who … who … who does things with … things she should have been wiser not to ask about what these things were.

Odo will soon be a dead, a dead disgusting man. Or he would be if the little matter of their wedding had not happened.

\- "I would lie to you if I told you I am not impressed by your … potential. It remains that I am more impressed by the shield maid than by the princess. Only a fool like Odo could see you as a weak woman in need of protection… not than you do not need it… you are a strong woman Gisla and this I like"

Since she has opened her inner thoughts to him, he will reciprocate. From this prophecy, the one made to Ragnar older brother, he has refused to become a farmer. Yes a farmer, her prince could have been a farmer. After all, what is a king? It is the size of the domain one toils which makes the difference; at the end of the day, they all care for the land. Rather than a farmer, he has become a warrior and as warriors go, he is … quite good at it. Some call him great; some certainly want to fight under his command. Some have chosen to be his own warriors; not Ragnar's. He now leads his own men; yes, like a prince, he leads warriors in raids… in battles if it pleases her. So many battles, so many raids. He has lost count of them. He has looked for her all over Midgard; he has searched for her in all the wrong places. Wrong places, wrong decisions, wrong choices. Her prince is a study in errors. Like her, he has been well educated. He has made so many mistakes and has learned from each and every of them. Their difference is that while he was wasting time; she was, being the good girl that she is, she was learning at a quick pace. She may be younger than him; she is wise beyond her years. Much wiser than he will ever be.

Calling her wise will not get him any nod of approval. She is no fool. He is a pagan, a killer of priests. A savage; a beast who ran climbing her walls without an armor…

\- "Then I saw you"

\- "I could not but watch"

He cannot tell her the first thing, the very first feeling he has experienced about her was lust. What he can tell her is that from the moment their eyes locked, he has become obsessed by her. The cries of the carrions, the crowing of Odin's ravens he had heard. Having seen this woman standing in front of the blood banner, taking her to be a Frank version of his valkyries, he had let go of the ladder, falling in the river, allowing the water to chase the precious air of his lungs.

\- "I wanted to die. I felt like this was the right moment to let go of it all. I would die in battle; Odin, my father would welcome me in Valhalla. Yes, it was the right time to die"

It was not the time to die. Fate, the Gods had decided it was not the time.

\- "I saw this man-beast crashing through my soldiers; I saw this animal daring me to look at him. I was so angry; I have never been so angry in my life. Yet when you fell if a part of me rejoiced, another part felt like it had been speared through. I ran to the edge of the wall, saw you entering the water. I thought … he is drowning. He will die and this will teach him. "

It was such a silly thought; a thought she could not understand. She has wanted his death yet she wanted him to be alive to be punished by her, to be alive to be punished at her will.

He wanted to die yet when Death came, he wanted to live. Hehas fought the water, looking through it at the skies, fighting the liquid element to get back to the air. Blessed air, blessed gift of life. When he had pierced the oppressing water, breathing heavily the cold air back in his lungs; it had been wonderful. It felt like he had died and be reborn again. Something had pulled him out of the deadly trance of drowning. Now… now he was being told why. She has pulled him back.

\- "After the fall, when you were not re-appearing above the water; I thought this man… he should not die. He is so courageous. I wish my prince would be as courageous as this foreigner, this enemy of Frankia is. I wished you to live because you were just as courageous as ..."

It was Love, her love; this love she had not recognized though acknowledged which had saved him. From this instant, the two lovers would try and seek each other again. Only after watching him swim long strides to one of the North men ships, had the princess return to her place by St Denis banner. The shield, the Oriflamme had done its Christian magic.

After… From then on, they would search for each other. When they attacked the bridge, he saw her banner guessing her standing by it; he has fought like a devil wanting to demonstrate to his people he was not bewitched. Each of her ladies was handed by her own hand a dagger to use before any North man attempt at rape.

\- "I saw you being the last of them jumping out from the lifting drawbridge."

\- "I knew you were there; I knew you would stand by your people."

After each and every battle, he has spent time looking at the city standing on the island. The city which was not surrendering to its enemy. Wondering what was doing the woman with the red banner. After each assault successfully repelled, she would look at the lights of the fires on the camp of the North Men. He would look at the flames in the distance, dancing at the pace of a beating heart. She would be praying her God to call her prince to save her. Both ignorant. both lovers.

The dead were to conquer the City. Ragnar as foretold would end it all by tricking the Parisians into faking his death. Killing an archbishop in the process.

\- "I knew nothing of this plan."

\- "He dared to threaten Father. I tried and disarm him"

Only a true shield maiden would try to fight Ragnar; to try and disarm him without weapon proves she is a stupid spineless princess. It proves courage only few warriors have and all envy. Lagertha would approve of her. Lagertha would be so proud if this was Gydda. No wonder Ragnar has kept mum on the princess; if more men knew of her courage, many would try and win her. He knows she was his hostage for a few instants; he now learns why and he is in awe of her.

If she is enraged, humiliated that Ragnar has tricked her and her people, he is furious at his brother to have held a knife against her throat. Indeed, it is time for her dream prince to come. Time for him to love and protect her. Ragnar once asked if there is a good reason for one to betray a brother. Yes, Ragnar. Yes. One betrays always for a good reason. An honorable reason. This woman is his destiny; if there is a faint chance for him to have a family, if there is a chance to defy this curse of sterility... it is her. Ragnar, I do not betray you because I hate you; I betray you because I love her.

After… after Paris successful yet almost empty raid in terms of riches, Ragnar had conceded defeat to his illness and left. Leaving behind him without any illusion his brother. When the two siblings have looked at each other the last time, they have accepted it will be a long time before they meet again. Each has his destiny to meet. Ragnar is a king obsessed by England; Rollo is a man who wants to meet a woman.

Rollo has ambitions; had ambitions. Said ambitions were still running high; were not a thing of the past. Rollo wanted to be his brother's equal, wanted a realm of his own; he was still holding grudges over past lives. Ragnar had lied again, pretended again, never allowing wounds to heal. Never building bridges of peace. Taking everybody, everything for granted. All was due to Ragnar like all was due to Odin. Well, it was not so. Rollo had his own Odin. Rollo who had about pulled out from his memory, from his heart this prophecy had been given another one by the new seer. A bear would marry a princess. He would be present at this wedding and he would be so happy he would dance naked on the beach.

Speaking way too fast for her to understand, Gisla let him … allows him to rock her, to rub his cheeks against hers, to steal a kiss here and there because it feels good. It feels safe. The great bear; this word she knows and princess and wedding. The rest … as for the rest it does not matter. The crazy bear is quite tame; the warrior means no harm.

The bear, it is him. He is a berserker. If he is Hrolf, Rollo, the wolf; he is dual. A great bear for his people of Kattegat; a great wolf for his people in Frankia. A bear has no real mate; wolves have. Ragnar does not do happiness, does not care for it always lost in this scheme or this trick of his. Rollo wants to be happy; wants to be loved. Rollo wants desperately to be the man of the woman he is now holding. Her back rests on his chest; both looking at the flames of the brazier which warms up the ducal chamber. What do they see in the flames? A future together. A princess who was hoping for a prince to save her and her country, a prince from the sea who was looking for loot and has found the most precious of treasures: love.

His head nuzzles down, pushing through her hair, till it finds her soft skin and it bites. Gently, it bites and it kisses. A gentle rain of kisses. She allows it; he is different. She has always known he would not be a Frank, this prince of hers. He would do things the way of his people. Yet he will love her. He will keep her people safe. These kisses she can get used to.

\- "Tomorrow, this right arm will be as stiff as a log"

\- "At least, it is properly stitched and Gods will, it will not get gangrenous"

She wants to leave. He has other plans for her. Of this awful wedding night in Paris, there is nothing to remember. It was just the mating of a wild bear. It was the accomplished duty of a princess sold to the victor of a battle.

Tonight is their first night. Tonight, the prince will come. And stay.


	8. Interlude One

Thanks guys for your support.

We are now moving to the second part. So let us recap the situation in which our heroes are stuck in.

A long time ago when Rollo and Gisla were young, both were told of a prophecy. Rollo would become a great man along finding love with a shield maiden comparable to none while Gisla would be wooed by a prince of the sea who would save her country.

Having realized who the prophecies meant (and probably intending to sue the Seer and astrologist for not having included a translation in plain Norse and Frank once all settles down) Rollo and Gisla are happy, right?

After all, having Bjorn and countless hordes of Vikings set of calling traitors her husband and his warriors on one side while having Ragnar and his own countless hordes of North men set on raiding once more her country should be basic honeymoon fare for our two love birds…

Plus Rollo has to explain to Gisla that with him, the stork will not be coming.

Ready? You want some more.

Rollo, the Gods of the South. Gisla and a iron-mask. Your turn!


	9. Part 2 Chapter 1

Arsoned the monasteries of the Blessed Wandrille and Jumieges, burned down the little cathedral of Rouen where she has prayed every day up to the tin tiles pf the roof, fallen its castle, pushed back deeper and deeper into the realm of Frankia. The wooden bridges of Pitres have proven a success; yet a success not long enough to stop Bjorn's army. Still, Pitres and its bridges have shown to his people that Charles though weak he is has not an enfeebled mind. Once again, Rollo and his warriors have suffered the indignity of defeat. The North Men are but slowed down and this irks them a lot which must count somehow as a success.

What is a success is the will of the Franks to see destroyed by their own hands the crops of tomorrow. Bjorn's men are hungry and angry. The farms they find are devastated, the harvests have turned to ashes, the wells spoiled and the cattle which cannot travel slaughtered. No food for the Northern Locusts. What they find for shelter are houses with fallen roofs, poisoned springs. A land where the only living are cackling mad men along priests eager for martyrdom while ready to proselytize. All Bjorn knows is that further up the river, his uncle is busy building more bridges slowing down the ships of his nephews. This and the fact that all able-bodied men go to Paris, this and the information that all the salvaged food is being stored inside Paris, all of this information makes him ready to blood eagle Rollo when the berserker falls in his hands.

The City on the Island had been hard to break despite a siege of a few months. Paris, this year, has been preparing from the day Ragnar has set sail to return to Kattegat. The walled city is not going to be fooled twice by the North Men.

Bjorn, who leads the warriors, is revolted by his paternal uncle' betrayal. How could he? How can he find rest in his sleep after such a crime? Yet he must. The warriors who had stayed with him have not defected. If some have, they have not joined him. Something has happened to the whole of them. The Christian magic must be strong on the lands of the Crucified God. From prisoners who prefer death than foreswear their new God, he knows of a royal bride. His aunt Siggy has been betrayed as much as Ragnar. The woman with the blood banner must be a witch. When he will get his hand on her, her head will fall by his own axe. In the interim, he has to fight today another bridge. Tomorrow, another castrum. And pray the Gods they find some wheat which is not too much rotten or covered by the faeces of the poultry which is running wild in the empty farm which is today his headquarters.

Every time, there is a battle; every time, Franks come to fight along the NordManni. They fight side by side, the short-hair Franks who disapprove of beards, who raise an eyebrow as not wearing helmets along the wild-haired North Men who fight bare-chest other pagans who look like their brothers but who are not. Rollo's Nordmanni have discovered that the daughters of the Franks are not coy though they are not promiscuous. They have learned how to court them; importantly they have discovered that escorting their fair charges to the local churches earn them a grateful smile. The priest blesses them as they fight the good fight; Sinric translates. Often, they hear of Ahasuerus, a king from the East. Not a Christian but a great king by Frankish standard. It seems to the NordManni that alliances can be proven strong if one worships the same God. As it includes an invitation to share the evening meal after Vespers, Rollo's warriors who are single and lonely do not mind sitting at the dining table of their charge's father while the priest blesses the shared food along explaining them the symbols of this and that. Missionaries come in many a guise.

The Franks are not as strong as the North Men in sheer physicality; what they miss in body strength, they make up by using their brains. They build weapons which boggle the imagination. They use the contents of mouldy manuscripts transforming the river into a wall of inextinguishable fire. All it does is to slow down Bjorn. All it does is to get the bear more and more enraged.

Pitres has fallen, Vernon has followed. The plains of Freneuse have not been more successful. Bjorn may be slowed down. Still he gets closer and closer to Paris. Mantes is not given up without furious assaults. Taken, re-taken. Freed and freed again. Rollo refuses to give Mantes. Mantes falls like the rest. Epone is burned to the ground. Meulan whose council has thought it wiser to surrender before engaging battle is raided by Rollo who cannot countenance treason. Poissy like Pitres has a huge bridge and Rollo is a hound attached to its protection. But he is also protecting nearby the massive castrum of Pontoise which overlooks the River Oise bathing the castle feet. If Pontoise falls, Bjorn can climb the Southern hills and attack the North of Paris by land… After Poissy, only rear-guard fights are possible as the slopes go down the City. If Pontoise falls along Poissy, the battle will again depend on Paris walls… Bjorn smiles. Slowing down is still going closer to Paris.

Charles smiles satisfied the bridges have worked. Rollo, not so much; Rollo does not smile, is not satisfied. As patiently as he can muster, he has allowed the bishops to parade holy relics; since these bones give courage to the Franks, it would be churlish of him to deny them to his allies. After all, he refuses to give up the Thor hammer amulet he wears dangling around his neck.

"If we had more men, we could at least hold the land we are sitting on" drones Odo.

"My brothers will only loan us – loan! – men if I accept their sons as my heirs" This time, Charles replies and this time once again with a petty tone.

"Frankia relies on your Royal Highness to protect its freedom" Faithful Roland reassures his liege. The Lotharingians take Neustrians to be too volatile to be able to stand on their own two feet. Neustrians are tired to be beholden to lords too far away to ensure protection yet greedy enough to claim revenues despite Vikings destruction. Roland is from Neustria; he stands with his emperor; not with the emperor's brothers.

Reason and truth are voiced by his wife

"Father, the Salian Law - yes, Odo, the Law of Succession written for my and your ancestor King Clovis – is clear. My uncles are not wrong".

As usual, the last word is left to the king.

"Rollo, why don't you take some rest… and take your wife with you. War councils are not appropriate for delicately nurtured daughters. I doubt Clovis - who is also my ancestor in case you had forgotten - would have invited his daughter at his headquarters"

The crazy bear is tired; the berserker has fought nonstop since day one when Bjorn has landed on his duchy. Fought each battle, led each assault, skirmish, guerrilla movements. To meet defeat and defeat again. There is some consolation as the Franks who are now his subjects have joined his warriors training at their sides; there is some nursed joy in seeing the Franks who have raised troops as Bjorn has been pushing to the hinterland do trust him enough to obey his orders without discussion; there is great joy when after a long and gruesome day his bride runs to his open arms and for one magical moment, he knows he is the one she loves, he is the one who is the Chosen One.

"Come. Your father wants to discuss the politics of the Empire. And I am fine with this. I know nothing about it; nor do I wish to know more about it. Ragnar loves politics. I have seen where these things can take one. Take Borg, duped by Horik and Ragnar as it was my brother who did the dirty work… I lied to Borg… Come, I do not want to remember my past. No politics tonight"

He takes her little hand into his great paw. Pats it and smiles, dragging his wife behind him. Roland smiles and the Emperor smirks approvingly. Odo's eyes darken; the Count of Paris disapproves of North Men. The warrior who has led the Franks in the defence of Paris hates the sight of the big frame of the Duke of the Nordmanni. This heathen, this savage should never have been given the hand of Gisla. Gisla should have been his: his promised prize. Now that she is married, she has somewhat lost in lustre. The North Man has spoiled her: she is no more a virgin. The North Man must have broken her; though she does not seen broken. Rather, she seems quite satisfied of her married life with the brute. Maybe she is one of these women he most likes who enjoy a firm hand. Maybe it would have been a pleasure to take her, to rob her from her innocence. To think she is now another man to enjoy makes him sick. Odo has a plan: it includes Gisla, a widowed Gisla…

As he bows to the King and winks at Roland, Rollo gives Odo a stiff salute. No love between the two men then. From Charles, he knows the emperor would have preferred to see his daughter dead than falling alive in the hand of his 'dear' cousin. From Roland, he has become privy to the unpurged version of what makes Odo's private life the subjects of gossip. Sex can be rough; but Odo's notion of rough is not something he approves of. There is more in the Count of Paris grudge than a frustrated lover. And this more puts his wife in mortal peril.

"Come, please."


	10. Part 2 Chapter 2

Ever since Rouen, ever since the spouses have accepted that their own God and Gods had a plan about them and this foreigner to whom they are married to, their relationship has progressed. The great wolf is now quite territorial about his wife as for the princess she has developed a sincere interest in the well-being of her husband's warriors. Rollo's men are well fed and well cared; they are also well-preached. Not that they listen much too busy as they are by war and the Frank nurses they have discovered. Rollo is not alone in having chosen a Frank as bed-fellow.

Whatever has happened to the ducal couple during their first night together has been forgotten; Rollo sleeps in his spousal bed every night. Enjoying every snatched instant to the dispiriting evolution of the uphill war he is leading against Bjorn. His marriage is his only consolation, one could say.

His arms, his back are covered in scars. The tattoos are holding though Gisla is as disapproving as before when it comes to heathen practices.

Two wolves trying to eat the sun and the moon? The Norse wolves must be experienced charioteers; maybe they have trained in Constantinople? Long gone are the days the Empire was wrestling its survival from the hands of the Red, white, Blue and Green factions; it remains chariot races are a by-word of sophistication. Rollo hates everything coming from the Southern Roman Empire. He hates their refinement when it compares to his stern North; he hates the comparison of their supposed culture since it makes Kattegat look Barbaric. He hates it when Gisla admits Charles's court is downright provincial. He likes the old Imperial palace in Paris and he knows a crook when he sees one like these Greeks trying to sell relics of dubious origin to a gullible wife. These bones, that dust or the shredded pieces of cloth supposedly having wrapped the body of some long dead martyrs will not save Paris. It will be fresh troops. Luck and the will of the Gods; certainly not the certified milk from the Holy Mother of the Christ God. If Jesus is indeed Son of God made Man to redeem us all, it stands to reason baby Jesus would drink all the milk the Holy Breasts would have been offering to His hungry mouth. Babies, God or mortal, are notoriously partial to milk. They do not share nor leave drops to survive centuries later. No divine left over stands to reason.

The relics merchant has looked at him with disgust, suggesting hypocritically that the duke's new faith is too young to understand the subtle nature of miracles. The comment has been a mistake as Rollo has flipped over the table on which the trader had disposed of his wares. The so-called milk bottle empties its content in the undignified dirt of a Parisian street. Leaving no choice but for the trickster to run away quickly under the mocking jibes of the Norse Man and his warrior companions…

- _"I do not mock you God, Gisla. I really wish he would talk to me. Now I know he talks to you. I know of your sincerity; I have seen you with the Oriflamme. And it angers me a lot to see swindlers like him trying to make a profit on your faith!"_

As the weeks have turned into months, his Frank has improved though his accent remains thick. Gisla, on her side, does her best though she is deaf, as tightly close as a seashell is to the knife of the fisherman, when her husband or Sinric try ever so lightly to introduce her to the Gods of Kattegat. Maybe, if she was to be cut from her people, maybe she would listen. In Frankia, surrounded by bishops, priests and nuns, she is safe from his attempts to try and ever so subtly get her to hear Odin's voice. Not that he hears it often himself in Kattegat; as for here in Frankia, he has not heard Odin at all, Thor still manages to reach out and Freyr somehow is the most successful. Yet it is the All Father who remains silent. Deaf to his prayers and uncompromising with his traitorous son. Just as unyielding as his former family, friends and people are. He has betrayed them all. Betrayed the Gods. Floki must not be surprised; Floki knows that once baptized, the Christ God would use Rollo as a tool to enter Kattegat and compromise for all its inhabitants their entry to Valhalla. Rollo has betrayed their present and their future afterlife along shaming their ancestors who cannot believe that the berserker shares the same bloodline as theirs.

Yet as gangs of criminals do, Rollo and his warriors claim their families live in Frankia; claim their land is in Frankia. Worse, now for some and it includes their duke, they pretend to become Christians. It was bad enough when Ragnar got baptized albeit the Norse King has done it to enter the city and has not altered the faith of his people. Rollo has, Rollo will never return to Kattegat. Rollo is now rootless, is now just a wanderer without a home to call his own. His family does not pray for his return, his ancestors do not claim kinship. The skalds when they spell the genealogies never mention that Ragnar once had a brother. Rollo is alone under the watchful, the disapproving eye of Odin.

Rollo does not care. Too busy to fight, too busy to slow down Bjorn's desire to raid the Seine. Too busy when the night comes to make love to the Frank woman he calls wife. Rollo does not care if Odin disapproves of him; with Gisla, he has found a fountain which water is always fresh and cooling to his parching thirst. To be loved, to be the loved one. The Chosen one.

There is somehow a divine justice rendered as Odin, Thor and Freyr have prevented Rollo to add insult to injury as his hall is empty of a cot. Rollo knows and does not care. Gisla says nothing. Too well aware that in some parts of her country, some call her the scarlet woman of the Revelations. The woman who will give birth to the ante-Christ. A cuckoo in the long dynasty of the Kings of Frankia. A bastard indeed. She is a traitor. God and his mother the blessed Marie have protected her from the dishonour of presenting a mongrel, a half Norse half Frank grandchild to her father.

If she is barren, so be it. At least, she has Rollo. At least, she has him. For how long? She does her best to trust in him; but he is a Pagan. Politely he smiles and pretends to listen to the bishop who has been assigned to his religious education. The questions he asks show that not one grain of meekness to the great designs of God has entered his heart. Why did his people not fight the Roman invaders? Why did the Jews accept for so many years slavery in Egypt without rebellion? As for Jericho, he wishes Ragnar had owned such magical instruments: this way, they would have entered Paris straight away. Rollo roars when his laughs; Rollo mocks her faith under the cover of pretending to learn about becoming a Christian. Barren she may be; at least the shame of giving birth to a little pagan is spared to her…

He is a traitor, she is too. But they are not alone. They have each other. Ragnar for all his might and Bjorn for his prowess in battle are lonely men. Rollo has Gisla, Rollo has found happiness. Ragnar can keep his crown; Rollo does not want it, does not envy it. Rollo has found love, better he is loved. Whatever follows will not matter; this love is of what sagas are about. A berserker met a princess, their eyes locked. For her love, he betrayed his people and fled from what was his home. Where he should have felt shame, he found happiness. End of the saga. Nobody is interested about happy people; this nobody is ignorant of what true happiness is.

The next day brings bad news; the next day always brings bad news. The road of Beauvais has been cut. They are almost encircled. This is a bad day; made worse as this is the day Charles informs his soldiers and his son-in-law of his great plan. A plan which includes Gisla as she will travel with him to safety. The princess will go where no North Man has ever gone before. To the safety of the great mountains and their monasteries. Charles will go further down South to Rome. The Pope will guide him; will help him to find the way to save his country…

This plan meets with incredulity, this being the polite version for the reaction of the Norse warriors. The Franks approve; most of them approve. For Charles's daughter, it makes sense. A pope Stephen the Second guided King Pippin over some complicated dynastic matters; a Leo whatever Leo it was crowned Charles, son of Pippin emperor. The Holy See can give, will give through careful reading of the Scriptures the answer that Charlemagne's grandson is looking for.

If he was king and he is not, Rollo would make a deal with his, this is Charles's half-brothers. He would accept personal humiliation but bring fresh troops to Frankia. He is about to say so when he hears of Magyar assaults in the Eastern marches; endless waves of Moorish activity in Italy. Sicily is about fallen. Constantinople is almost always routed by the Bulgars and the Caliphate and his commanders….

Christianity is in peril. Taking advice from he who sits on the throne of Peter becomes logical.

\- _"I shall bring a new throne for the Pope which I shall collect at the monastery where I will leave you, my daughter. No North man, no Moor, no Saracen or Magyar knows its direction. You will be safe here. Safer than in Paris."_

The maid of Paris has not stood by the Oriflamme to allow the duchess of the Nordmanni to hide like a coward. The blessed banner has saved Paris once; it can save it twice. Has Father forgotten how another maid had saved Paris from King Attila? These days were dark indeed as the Western Empire was ending its long life. Yet Genovefa has saved Paris; yet she has counselled the son of a successful Germanic warlord to become one day her ancestor. His ancestor.

 _\- "Genovefa did not flee Paris, Father. I shall stay as I have done. My people are in Paris; I am safe among my people. Among our people. All our people"_

And she turns to Rollo with such a shy smile to include in the people she calls her own the courageous Nordmanni who have been vigilant allies from the beginning. Their duchess is safe with her people, all of her people.

Rollo remains silent rolling in his head many ideas, possibilities and gives his answer.

 _\- "If your brothers could or would have helped, they would have done so a long time ago. A wise man in these circumstances will ask guidance from the Gods… I mean the Christ God. Our king does so in Kattegat. As for the princess, her safety preys heavily on my mind"_

It is not that he wants to get rid of his wife; if he had a say in the matter of Frankia, she would stay with him. Frankia is not his land; it is the land ravaged by Bjorn and this land he is fighting for its freedom. What he needs are more warriors, not a woman whose wrist is not accustomed to the weight of a sword. Better be it that she stays safe, away from Paris. A siege when one is the prisoner inside the walls is not what he wishes for his bride.

Said bride replies she knows very well what it is to be inside a besieged city. She has seen men dying on the walls. Her dress has been spattered by the blood of good bishop Gozlin. The North Men must surely not be this much different than they were a year ago. She will stay.

Charles raises his eyes, shakes his head and sighs. It is not from him, the North Man will get support in convincing his wife it is safer for her to ride away from Paris.

 _\- "What if my uncles capture me? They will hold a plaid and will have me divorced in less time than I can pronounce Ave Maria"_

This Rollo knows. His marriage is considered null and void in large chunks of the empire; to see his wife as a glorified prisoner under the care of her uncles is a serious concern.

\- _"Then it is a settled thing: you will ride with me to Rome!"_

\- _"If this is safe, I agree. You will leave tomorrow with your father. Before it is too late and Pontoise becomes another new stronghold for Bjorn"_

The she-wolf is angry; all the explanations, all the soothing protestations of love are falling on deaf ears. However cruel it is for her husband, he holds against the winds of her rage. Just like he holds against Bjorn slowing him so much that it will almost make two years before the son of Ragnar sees the great city walls again. He holds when all he wants is to make peace with Bjorn, all he desires is care for his land and be happy with his wife.

 _\- "Tomorrow, you will ride with your father. Collect whatever you need in Paris and leave for Italy. And do not tell me it is going to be like last time. I have ordered that all the women, all the elderly and the children to leave Paris. Ragnar wanted for some reason to spare in a way your capital. Bjorn has no reason to do so"_

The siege is not going to be this civilized affair where warfare was limited to the walls. Once they will get in and Bjorn will get in, it will be a battle house after house, street after street with a dwindling number of Frank soldiers and Nordmanni warriors. Until the end and the final butchery.

\- _"I will not see my wife blood-eagled or raped ending up in abject slavery"_

How dare he? Does he think her weak? She has seen some Nordmanni women fighting along the warriors; if he calls her his shield maiden, then she should be at his side. The reply flies back like a sharp spear. Women have been known to wish to become shield maidens, they have trained, they have fought battles; he has seen what battles can turn out to be. Too many women killed or severely injured and wounds of the minds can be as deadly as the ones cut by steel. The little woman walks in front of her towering husband, planting herself as a cliff beaten by stormy waves yet standing aloof to the irate sea.

 _\- "I am not a shield maiden, nor do I care to be one. I am a Frank. Married to you. Just like my duty is to my people, my duty as your wife is to stand by your side. I will stay in Paris. How dare you to think Frank women are weak. Are cowards! I will stay in Paris. I must. This is my place."_

The duty of a princess is to obey her father and her husband. Has she forgotten her solemn vows when they were married not so long ago? She is to obey him and he has given her marching orders.

The door slams behind her. But not after she has imparted to him an unabridged version of how Charlemagne must have looked like when rage was seizing the great emperor … if he had been a woman.

His heavy fist hits the wall. Why is it that he never can fully protect his people? Once again it is like in Kattegat when Jarl Borg was attacking it. He had had no choice but leave like a cowered dog, tail between its legs. Siggy had approved of his handling of the situation as it was his clever management which had allowed Ragnar victory at the end. Siggy, who was no shield maiden, who had wanted to fight like one? … Porunn who wanted so much to be like Lagertha training endless hours and broken by a simple scar. Only Lagertha, only her, is a true shield maiden. A shield maiden of the North. There is no dishonour in strategic retreat. Better Gisla be safe by this great seer of the Christians, better Rollo be locked inside the walls of Paris than going through the same black days he has been through upon learning of Siggy's death. These days, he does not want to live again; losing Siggy was bad. Losing this she-wolf of Frankia would … would kill him.

Tomorrow she will ride to Rome. Tonight, she sleeps with her maids. Far from her husband, who is too busy to notice, too occupied to prepare for a distraction to fool whatever Viking scouts who might attack the royal convoy. Pontoise will fall but on Rollo's terms!

She has left.

Charles has blessed the ones who stay like Roland and the guards of the Emperor. Charles has left almost humming as the little man seems lost in a trance. There must be a great plan afoot. A plan nobody is privy of. His country is ransacked, pillaged in every way yet the emperor smiles as if he knows that at the end, he and only he will win. Gisla rides behind him, her face covered by a mask and a dark veil. Barely acknowledging her husband by a cold nod, eager like her father to leave this fortress, eager to ride to lands which know naught of barbarian North men or stupid husbands who refuse to listen.

If he had hoped that the morning would find her smiling, said hopes are dashed to the ground. Face hidden, head bent, she does not talk to him; does not wish him goodbye. It is as if it was Paris all over again when she had informed him of her disgust at their coming nuptials. Rollo does not wave good bye. Rather, he looks at the dust raised by the horses which are trotting away to Paris, taking a wife who seems set to take away all her warm love. Pontoise is cold. Very cold and unfriendly indeed.

He sighs.

 _\- "They will be safe. No North man can climb over the Alps, lord duke"_

Roland stands behind him, ready to obey to his command.

- _"You do not know Bjorn"_

Roland has this curious smile of his when he is staging a winning battle.

 _\- "No man, no mortal man can climb the mountains in winter. As for summer, you need good guides. Something tells me your nephew is no different than us. The Alps will defeat him"_

Something in the voice of the soldier intrigues Rollo; something tells him these mountains he has heard about must be indeed quite something to behold, to give to him the feeling that Bjorn will not succeed.

\- _"It took great elephants from Africa to allow King Hannibal to cross the Alps. Elephants are from the South, my lord duke. There is no elephant in your North!"_

Rollo is not sure whether to approve or not at the sudden brisk bout of laughter of the Frank soldier. Yet all the Franks start laughing as sharing the same hidden joke. He has heard of the great beasts and it gets him thinking. Bjorn is about to discover that the Gods of the South have a way to protect their people the son of Ragnar has no idea of. Gisla is indeed very safe…

Gisla is safe. This is all what matters to him. Safe from Bjorn. Safe from his own kin. Safe from the nephew he wants so much to call son. Yet Rollo feels so lonely. Why is it that when one has done his duty, one feels dissatisfied? Rollo does not care for the Alps, he cares for his wife...…


	11. Part 2 Chapter 3

For Barbarian as it may have looked to the sophisticated Byzantines, Carolingian courts were not that different from much later courts like Versailles. Customs and costumes may vary; the human heart remains the same. Gisla's distrust in Odo is patent akin to a healthy animal's distrust of a slithering snake. Gisla for all her virtues and because of them knows there is something rotten in Odo.

Meanwhile our happy couple relationship progresses. It is nice and lovely to be in love; it must be quite a terrible time when one feels unable to protect one's family. Decisions are to be made. Wives are to obey.

The dust raised by Charles's convoy has not the time to settle down when Count Odo announces he is leaving, For Burgundy. Should the North men choose to follow the emperor, the imperial train needs a protective rear-guard! Odo who he distrusts rises in his esteem as a warrior. The imperial convoy needs a human protection if his God proves as lackadaisical as he has been in the matter of the protection of Paris. The two men exchange curt nods as they bid each other farewell. One will certainly fare better than the other in the rich Burgundian province. Though to be honest, this territory will be the next to be pillaged once Bjorn gets inside Paris. As such, there is no ill will from Rollo as he watches the count leave with his soldiers. Burgundy needs a firm head and hand to protect it. An iron hand indeed!

 _\- "We could have done with some of his soldiers"_

Rollo does not like Odo. The brother of the Kattegat farmer has discovered that the court of Charles hides a world of corruption: bishoprics are the territories of the aristocracy; divorce is forbidden but accidents happen, the lucky ones being repudiated. Man is always the winner and woman has the under hand because of some crime committed a long time ago by the first woman ever. Odo likes … Odo likes things which displease Rollo. Floki would be surprised at how much Rollo has changed. Concubines are not to be taken for granted and women are not to be forced. Wherever she is, Siggy is approving of this changed man.

\- _"Not that I dare to dispute the Count of Paris assessment of the situation. The emperor's convoy needs protection. Still he could have left us more men!"_

Rollo does not like Odo; Roland seems to share the same opinion. The faithful retainer will fight with his men to the last man standing and more for his capital. He is not afraid of the kill to come. Rollo's nephew must be baying for Frank blood; Roland is hoping to delay, as long as he can muster, this desire. If he dies, so be it. He will die for the Emperor, for the Frankish realm. His old father will be proud and hopefully God will shelve his sins allowing him to enter Paradise when Judgement day comes. If death meets him in Paris, then he will meet her and take with him as many North Men, pagans and miscreants as they all are.

Not sure as to take as a compliment that Roland has pronounced North Men and not Nordmanni, Rollo raises an eyebrow as in doubt.

\- _"Your people have paid the duty of blood. He who fights at my side to protect my country is my blood brother and it is my duty to show him the way to salvation. God bless us all! As for the heathens of your native land, my lord, may the soil of Frankia serve them as shroud! May they all rot in Hell!"_

Franks and Nordmanni alike prepare for the assault against Pontoise fort. The plan is simple: the wounded, those whose wounds are too severe to ride to Paris will stay. And it will be only Franks. Bjorn kills all his Norse prisoners. At the beginning, he was keen on tearing their guts alive; now as he is tired, a quick blow of the axe and the deed is done. The Nordmanni will escape all of them. Hopefully they will ride through the thick forests which surround Paris to the safety of its walls in one long unpleasant rough ride. The wounded being Franks will not escape slavery but in theory will not be granted death.

Summer and Bjorn have brought him Love in Rouen. The eight month of the Latin calendar, the month of Vintage for his people when traders bring in the precious brew produced the sunny lands of the South is rainy and foggy this year. Almost like in Kattegat as not as cold, not yet as cold… Norse men are no different than their Southern counterparts; they do not like to be wet. Importantly, they cannot see through the thick mist which is rising from the drenched soil of the hills which surround Pontoise. It is make or break; they all have to ride and fast.

- _"You understand that Bjorn will take no prisoners in Paris?"_

 _\- "My ancestor fell by Count Roland at Roncesvalles. They saved the rearguard of Emperor Charlemagne. It was worth it and a great honour indeed to die at the side of the Emperor's nephew. I have no fear, my lord. No fear at all. Look at my men, we all are ready to let the North Men feel the steel of our Frank swords. The more? The better!"_

The priest who will stay with the wounded blesses the ones who will live longer and they are gone. To Paris. To the walls. Nordmanni and Imperial guards together united in the singular desire to live a little bit longer to die with honor. Brothers in arms, born under different skies. United to fight and protect the families that their God, that their Gods have given then in Frankia.

To its open gates and this time Rollo is going to learn what it is to stand on the top of them walls. To stand and see like ants, like these locusts he has heard about the men of Kattegat. The showdown is now in place.

The traitor is locked inside Paris; the lover has sent his love away. Odin can strike his rebellious son. Odin can… if it pleases the Gods of the South. If it pleases them...


	12. Part 2 Chapter 4

The story titled: A wedding night in Paris gives the prologue to this short novel

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Despite Sinric's smile at their arrival, he feels that something is wrong; something is certainly wrong as he unsaddles from the horse. A woman stands there, looking at him. Looking at the men who have just ridden with him. She screens avidly the warriors who stand down, then a cry of joy and she runs to her companion. He is alive. Alive, blessed are the good sisters who prayed for his safe return to Paris.

Sisters? … Sisters imply… a plural inside. Despite the shadows of heavy clouds of threatening rain, more women show up. More and more. Plural, then.

"I thought I had ordered that the women of Paris would leave the city"

Sinric, who cannot any longer hide behind a sudden attraction at his boots, coughs, spluttering some explanations. The Parisian ladies have left… most of them. About all the children have left with their mothers. The only ones here are the ones born to the Nordmanni by their Frank wives and concubines and… naturally all the fit men who are fit and willing to fight are inside…

"My order was not limited to women married to Franks!"

Sinric coughs some more. The Frank companions feel that their people do not approve of them. However dangerous it may be, they feel safe here at risk of the wrath of the North Men yet safer still with their Nordmanni spouse than walking like refugees… Called whores… and traitors to the motherland… Sinric translates a diplomatic version. The women, farmers' daughters as they are, speak plainly. They are not welcomed by the people of Paris who have left the city.

Rollo is not happy; not that he blames them. Is it why Gisla wanted to stay? To escape the opprobrium cast over any woman born of a Frank household who befriends a Norse man? Her uncles have not hidden their repulsion at her groom. He knows through Sinric that a delegation has gone to the great temple of Rome to beg their Great Priest, the highest priest of the Christ God to proclaim their marriage annulled. The Great Priest is wise. As they are not related by consanguinity, as he is not infamous, as she is not a known whore… the list of the reasons, as why their marriage has not been declared void, has shown him that Charles's brothers have considered each and every possible appeal including some humiliating ones such as his possible impotence!

He is and will stay married. How can he deprive these women of the same right that he enjoys? They have chosen to broker peace with his men. It is now their choice to die at their side. So be it. There are many more than one way to be a shield maiden. Poor Porunn who has missed the obvious…

So we have a few women and a handful of children. It could be worse"

The expression of Sinric who looks like a harassed rabbit tells him there is worse.

"Err,,, some women of Paris who are not married have wanted to stay. They… they may be of some sort of use. They have skills…"

Nobody will know what sort of use is implied as the poor interpreter turns beet-root; Rollo on the other hand knows now as some heavily painted women turn up on the place where the riders from Pontoise have arrived. Nobody can doubt their skills. Their very personal skills. When Ragnar has arrived in Frankia, his men had discovered that some of the local women were no different than the whores of Kattegat. But with a Frankish flourish. The good-time girl can be under the care of the innkeeper (though said host is generally dead thanks to the Vikings) or more frequently works under the direction of a matron in a brothel. Men are men; Vikings are not different. As long as they pay the merchandise, the house is open. Business as usual!

Some light-skirts have left Paris; some have stayed. The shy Nordmanni who has yet to find a steady companion can find in the open houses of the capital a warm welcome; the Frank who has stayed behind the walls can visit the ladies of the night without the fear his own good lady will task him next morning. Roland's men as soldiers of the emperor are offered a discount!

"I did my best, Rollo. About all the sick have been evacuated. The ones who have stayed would have died on the roads of exile. In fact, we have buried the last one this morning."

Some would think this information with dismay; Rollo takes it matter-of-factly. He has to train city dwellers to become warriors in less time than said and the women can be of use… as nurses. An infirmary is going to be needed all too soon. He plans to nod graciously his approval when Sinric finally empties his chest.

"Err… this leads me to suggest we use the convent of the good sisters who live near the cathedral as hospital"

This time, Rollo turns sharply the head. He feels like someone who is being observed from above but there is no one. The night is coming quick in October. Yet, he still feels on his back the eyes of a hidden observer. It must be the crows which have elected to nest on the spire of Saint-Stephen, the great cathedral which sits by the Seine. The church where but a few months ago, he got married to Gisla submitting to a rite which is not followed in Kattegat. No exchange of swords, no jump over the fire. Rather an endless exchange of promises interspaced by songs and hymns in a language which is not Frank… Regardless, the inside is full of treasures. Ragnar's raid has not reached it. Though they have certainly visited the two great abbeys of Saint Germanus and Saint Denis. Plundering them quite thoroughly! He finds he is smiling at the memory; really he should not.

"What were you saying? What sisters?"

It seems Paris has determined to offer him a sample of what Frankia can present as women. He knows about the faithful wives; he has seen the companions of the one-night stand. He is about to know the dedicated virgins. The women who call themselves wives of the Christ God.

A woman is coming to his side. Tall, certainly taller than the emperor. The Franks make a sign of the cross at her sight. It is not every day one meets a recluse. A cloistral life does not seem to prevent one from being proud it seems. The woman stands more erect, straighter than the emperor will ever be.

"My Lord. I have come to inform you that my sisters and I have no fear as to what may happen. The ladies of our convent are prepared to show to the martyrs of Jumieges that the nuns of Paris are just as courageous as they were for the Glory of Jesus Christ Our lord."

Great! This is exactly what he needs now. A bunch of saintly women who know nothing of the world happy to be slaughtered while singing hymns, no doubt!

"The gardens of our convent are growing medicinal plants. The Syrian doctor who will take over the infirmary is happy with our selection. Some of my sisters will pray for our salvation like Mary did at the foot of our Lord. Some likewise such as me will be Martha. In this very special occasion, we will engage with the world tending to the wounded. Later when the North Men will have left humbled and defeated, I shall walk to Rome to beg our Holy Father to forgive us. As says the Apostle: "If anyone has the world's goods and sees his brother in need, yet closes his heart against him, how does God's love abide in him". How can a Frank not stand to Frankia in time of peril? How can a Christian not make a stand against the Heathen?"

The abbess, for it must be her as he sees the glint of a large gold cross dangling from around her neck reaching almost her waist, does not wait for his signal to leave. The nun blesses the soldiers limping slightly as she leans on her pastoral stick. Nuns are supposedly humble: this tau as Gisla calls such walking stick is made of ivory, rock crystal and gold. As for the woodwork, it would make a master craftsman as Floki weep, blinded by its beauty. A beauty made for a One God, and never to be seen again… Neither humble nor meek. Siggy would have killed for this cross. Yes, there is something of Siggy in the woman. It is an homage he keeps for him. He rightly doubts the abbess would be impressed by the compliment,

Sinric would like to scamper off now that the bad news has been told but the duke is having none of it. In short, there are the men: his, Roland's who are trained soldiers and the good people of Paris who will man the walls and fight. The men are doing their duty. He is happy to say so … because he cannot say the same of the female species for the Franks. It is bad enough to have wives and children; but the whores have no justification inside the walls! At least… at the very least, the nuns are going to be useful. What has Sinric been thinking? Mothers can blend with virtuous virgins; whores a lot less.

Tomorrow, the whores leave. They are just a distraction. The nuns who will nurse the wounded, the ones who want to be martyred, after all… the wives of his men, if they want to become shield maidens, who is he to deny them the right to die alongside their bedfellows? But the whores will leave! Tomorrow morning… if it is not already too late.

Stretching his neck and shoulders tired by the ride of ten leagues through dense forest, trying to avoid Bjorn's men, under a thick rain despite the fog which can lift from the Seine without warning has been exhausting. Exhausting, even for the trained warrior he is. He sighs. At least, his bad leg does not seem to be complaining. Frankia must have something good; in this land, his old wounds which are all too ready to show they disagree when he tasks them are quiet. Still, he is tired, his back is howling for some rest. Tonight, he is going to be able to sleep, a better sleep than in Pontoise, that is.

They go back on the saddle for a few instants, the time to reach the gates of the palace which are not demurring at opening to a North man. To a Nordmanni. The rooms are empty. No courtier. Some have stayed but they wear armours and chain mail instead on their silks. The colours provided by their ladies have gone with them to the safety of Burgundy. Empty the rooms then except for the Aula Regia. The throne has no occupant; yet a guard keeps a lonely vigil. Charles may be gone; the spirit of Charlemagne lingers in the room…

When was it that in this very room his wife has expressed her despair at being married to him? She was a fury. A furious Valkyrie, an angry she-bear. She was magnificent. She was… she is everything he has ever wanted. From such a strong willed woman, only will rise strong willed… Only strong… only… Only he. Only he knows it will never happen; still this thought is warm and good to hold and cherish. Betrayal to Odin comes with a cost. He accepts the consequences… Still…

The guard looks at the leader of the Nordmanni lost in his thoughts… not so lost as to look at the empty throne. He is probably wondering why the emperor has fled Paris when he should have been among his people. This North Man has not abandoned his brothers; this North man stands where the king should be. The guard is not happy; Rollo who has missed the mimic of the soldier sighs and stretches so more. Yawning in the process.

"Tomorrow is another day. … aaahh… aahh… sorry. Good night!"

He yawns again and takes the direction of the apartment of his wife when he recoils. He does not like to remember what has happened to it; rather, he walks back to the chambers which were given to him before the wedding. The time to get rid of his fur cloak, pull away his muddy boots, tear from his sweaty skin his dampen tunic under the chainmail and he jumps into the bed. As soon as his head brushes the pillow, he enters a dreamless sleep. He does not even have the time to wonder why it is since he has entered Paris, he feels like the walls have eyes set on him…

The next morning, the whores learn they will stay in Paris. The bells of every church sitting in the city ring their dire toll: the North Men are coming.

This time, Rollo knows what it feels. What it must have felt for Gisla to watch helplessly this tide of ships so close to each other. Facing the city, daring it to oppose its glorious flow. The city has said no to Ragnar. It may have been tricked once; it still says no to Bjorn. And it will not be tricked twice.

Standing where Odo has stood, Rollo looks at the ships as the dare to come as close as they can to avoid the fire Franks have befriended. The siege can begin. Rollo has better things to do than slam a fire vase; Rollo has a plan.

"Do we have enough stones?... For the ballistae"

Rollo speaks to Roland but the Frank must still coming to grips with the waves of Viking ships violating the Seine for the Frank does not answer.

"I say: do we have enough stones?"

Roland does not speak, does not reply but his hand seems to point at something behind Rollo. The berserker turns his head to look at what is so astonishing that a seasoned warrior cannot speak. He turns his head but in his heart he knows and he is furious.

On the ramparts of another tower, looking interested at the Viking flotilla, standing by the red banner like it was yesterday, his wife talks to Sinric. A Sinric who seems to wish he was dead or to the least leagues and leagues away. Miles away certainly from his leader who is showing from the distance that he does not take it kindly to be thwarted by his wife.

Roland certainly is not complicit of her rebellion against her master and husband; his surprise is not faked. Sinric… Sinric, if and when he catches him, the little man is going to learn what the consequences are to aid and abet an erring spouse. A wife who dares to disobey her husband.

The Franks do not care: it is natural for them to see the Emperor's daughter doing her duty to the land. Her brother if he was alive would be doing the same thing.

The Nordmanni approve: their wives are here in Paris at their side. It stands to reason that their duchess will be doing the same thing. The state of the affairs between the ducal couple seems complicated; but… all in all, Rollo seems happy with his wife and the duchess … the duchess seems to care for her husband. All is well which ends well: there is no reason to make a fuss about something as natural as a wife standing to her husband, right?

Innocent Roland, uncertain Sinric, approving Nordmanni and satisfied Franks; they may all go to Helheim. Rollo is furious. As soon as this affair of the siege is sorted, his wife is going to hear from him!


	13. Part 2 Chapter 5

Thanks to all of you who have sent reviews (please carry on and send more). The least I can reciprocate is by replying.

First thing first: do not send links to videos: Fan Fiction website does not like it cutting the link to some gobbledygook making no sense whatsoever: rather write how the link is called on YouTube!

Siggy and babies: When you watch the scene where Ragnar is having a rare go at Bjorn for having allowed Porunn to engage in battle though he knew she was pregnant, you can see Rollo hovering in the background. From Rollo silent movements, you guess that he was not aware and that Porunn pregnant condition at risk of dying makes him very emotional. He literally jerks when he hears his nephew is to become a father. I thought at the time, this is how Ragnar should have reacted. This is how a true grandfather should behave… yet it was Rollo who was sad, who was hurt. And it whispered to me: this man who has no child would so much to have a child of his own

Berserkers as the prototype of were-wolf. Probably not: Nebuchadnezzar who went to live as a wild man in a forest (see Bible) or King Lycaon (see Greek myths). This said we are here in Northern Europe. We do not know much of the original Indo-European mythological background. What we know is that Romano-Germans who are the descendants of the Celts who lived in Germania prior to the Roman invasion loved Mercury, Jupiter and Hercules. One can recognize Odin and Thor. But Loki has no equivalent – mercifully – in the Greco-Roman pantheon. Rollo as a berserker is a shape-shifter. The show is heavily leaning on his bear side; as you have noticed, I choose to present the hidden wolf of Hrolf/Rollo. For a good reason that hopefully you will enjoy later.

Hercules in Sicily. About 5 years ago, I was one of the many tourists who visited Palermo palace and I can vouch gold was lavishly used to enhance God palatine church! Rollo descendant (though this is debatable from an historical perspective, I like the idea) was not mean with the Crucified God. Plus who knows, William, and the Richards may have had their own fair share of bastards. For Hercules, my sources do not see him in Sicily unlike Ulysses with Cyclops Polyphemus.

Annulment. It was easy for a man to seek an annulment or rather repudiation. A lot harder for a woman. On the other hand, the Pope could be pressured by angry and powerful relatives. If the Emperor of East Frankia could put his hands on his niece, he certainly could coerce her in begging for an annulment followed by Gisla retiring in a convent. When a woman was asking for an annulment especially a first time bride, it was often on grounds on her husband impotence. Hence, the very important check of the blood on the bridal suite bed sheet.

When it comes to incest laws: they include marrying the sibling, father, son of one's husband. It is very complicated I shall spare you but for these of you interested I suggest reading "Franks and Alamanni an ethnographic perspective edited by Ian Wood". Let's say that I shall use it in another of my fictions (this one being very historical and not fan fiction) also set in the Dark Ages, but way before dear Rollo.

Do I like Rollo? Yes, he is a man beset by insecurities for the tall guy he is, yet he has redeeming qualities but he certainly can behave like an idiot. Good thing for him the Gods are a lot more merciful than they are deemed to be.

Do I like Gisla? Yes; 100% yes. I totally ship this odd couple. Does he deserve her? No, but then this is no surprise. We seldom deserve our better half by definition (hint in better)

I hope with this chapter that you will forgive this long silent interval. I really hope you will like this new chapter.

There are the things one plans to do and the things one really does. The quietly laid plans, the I shall do this in my own good time and I can't bear it anymore allied to What do they think I am? The moment when This is unacceptable takes over. When it just feels right to give in to This is too much as This madness stops here and Now!

More Time passes, less and less Rollo finds himself able to accept this flaunt of his authority. He is tired of women who take him for granted, all these women who enjoy playing games with his mind, with his finer feelings. All this part of him he hides because he knows the great bear is not so strong. He is tired of these people who only see him for what he can give to them and never give anything back. And his anger builds and builds up… His anger has never stopped filling up from a very long time. His anger is about to explode.

It is a good thing it takes ages to walk down from the walls ramparts to the ground because it gives one the time to think over what one will say. A last minute rehearsal of some sort. It remains that the stairs go down and down in a dizzying spiral which does not seem to end. Gisla will take a deep breath before she exits the tower, before she meets the husband God has designated to be the unlikely saviour of Frankia. Because she knows he will. She knows now; she knows. She simply has to tell him and everything will become as clear as s summer morning by the River Loire when the air is so clear and the colours so vibrant. When it feels simply right. There is so much she has to share now that she knows for sure.

More Gisla gets elated if a bit giddy from all the stairs while Sinric helps her navigate the steps, more Rollo enrages. No! He does not like it when people disobey him! He has been known to kill the odd coward on the spot when said fool refused to attend at his command to climb to the walls where Valhalla and Fame were calling the warriors. A deadly retribution awaits who is bold enough to deny his will. Wife or not, nobody is to deny the will of the Norse Duke. Princess or not, Gisla will learn to obey! What world is this where women stand up to their husbands? Who does she think she is? She is his. His prey, his hostage. She is just a Frank; a girl born into riches convinced because of a long dead ancestor that her family has the divine rule for what? For eternity? She has spent the best part of their married life to deny him. Well, it stops now. She is going to mind her manners. If he has to trash her, he will.

He will!

When the two spouses meet, Gisla is just joy. All is settled, the words carved, the delicately wrought sentences. If she could, she would fly into his arms. If he could, he would give her a good shake up right now.

But he can't. He is like the red-hot poker which wound hides in his palm, scar of a bad day. Reminder of one of the too many conflicts which mark his memories of the time with Siggy. Siggy who minded her own business not bothering to keep him apprised of her choices. Siggy who always took him for weak and too thick to understand her fine plans. Siggy who mocked him always implying he was unable to make a single decision in his life,

Siggy morphs into Gisla, another woman who wants to ride him roughshod. Gisla will pay for all of them women.

If only it could be now but he cannot. Because there are around him her people who look at her with so much love and pride. Because there are his people who approve of her. Because this is her place. Norse women do not hide meekly behind their husbands, Shield maidens fight at the side of their men. It pleases the North men that the Frank girl their leader calls wife shows her mettle. She stood for the people of Paris; was it a year ago? Now, she stands for her new people. This time, she flies the Oriflamme of blood for the Nordmanni. This time, her God is with them. Them, the warriors outlawed in the North. This time, Kattegat outcasts have her on their side. Bjorn is not Ragnar and Ragnar had to accept death to enter the city surrounded by great walls. Bjorn cannot fight against the will of the Gods. The maid with the flying banner dripping in blood is standing for the Nordmanni. Try and enter the city, Bjorn. He may have many shield maidens but they have a Valkyrie.

Odd are the Gods. In a realm who worships a One God, they are the witnesses blessed by the vision of Odin's own warrior daughters. They see from their own eyes what a Chooser of a Slain looks like. The Chooser flies a red banner surrounded by heaps of dead keen to prove their worth by fighting with honour. The Chooser is on their side. And they are proud of Gisla…

The Franks smile as a parent smiles when his flesh and blood has accomplished a great feat proving again and again that in his veins runs truly the blood of his ancestors. The child will do what it takes to uphold the mighty deeds of the past. The guards fall into line like they parade for her father. The few women bow. And the priests nod in approval.

Everybody approves. Everybody finds it right that she should be here in a city surrounded by blood-thirsty North Men. Everybody is mad. Everybody is a rebel. Against him and this madness must stop. It must stop. To stop it, he needs a plan.

He is an angry bear whose sleep has been disturbed, a great wolf which has sniffed a game who dared to enter his lair. The wild beast is planning how to sanction this offense. He cannot punish her outright now; he will humour her until they are alone. Face to face and he will strike. In one blow!

Roland does not like the glint in Rollo's eyes. The staid soldier does not like at all the wild look in the eyes of the Duke of the Nordmanni. It reminds him of the dark pools of a savage predator who is relishing the game he foresees to play with an unsuspecting prey…

They meet: the unbending cliff and the embracing sea. The happy girl and the stern husband. Around them, Rollo's warriors approve of their duchess. She is no different from their women; she stands by her man. As for the Franks, the Blood of Charles is here protecting its People, its Capital. This is the way it must be, Genovefa stays within Paris against the Scourge of God; this is the way Charles daughter proves her family is worthy of the crown. She shares the peril, she suffers the danger and she will lead to victory. Yes, somehow she will be the salvation of her people.

Rollo says nothing as he knows he will erupt if he does not keep a firm hand over his temper. Gisla smiles and bows to the North man. Who will speak first?

\- _"I am sure you will tell me in your own good time how come you stayed in Paris"_

Suddenly, it feels cold around Gisla. It is winter and ice surrounds her. Still she is game to it, she does not mind. When he will know, all will be fine and warm again.

\- _"Roland, how do you deal in Frankia with people who disobey their leader?"_

The Frank shifts unsure of the question. Is it banter, real anger or worse? Sinric who always is on the watch out for the perfect translated word remains oddly silent.

\- _"Let's go to the Throne Room. You will explain why you betrayed your king along disobeying me!"_

Gisla does not mind yet she stops but for one single request.

\- _"Roland and Sinric, you two please"_

Rollo, who has started walking back to the palace, turns around like snarling wondering what she has in mind to allow witnesses to the rare dressing down he is going to throw at her. He is about to shout and ask why when…

- _"We need a witness. I mean we need two. One for our Nordmanni and Father's people. Court Protocol is quite clear!_ "

Protocol? Is she serious? The Franks have a protocol to follow when a wife disobeys and her husband takes the matter in his own hands? An enormous sigh escapes his lips before he brings them into a grim line which does not bode well for Gisla. Siggy has managed to escape without bruise by luck when she had admitted to cuckold him with Horik. Gisla has committed less offense yet she is going to pay a lot more. She will pay for Lagertha indifference, for the whores of Kattegat, the good time girls in Uppsala, Cwenthryth rebuke. She will pay for his mother preferring Ragnar. All the women who have denied him love…

His hand scar itches to slap her face now and then; his hand turns into a fist. So he walks fast, great strides are made. Like a wolf runs after his unwary prey. Silently yet efficiently shortening at each step it rakes the distance before the kill. The two men behind him get into step faster; she almost has to run as her long dress gets in the way. The long staircase of the palace leading to the Throne Hall is quickly swallowed; in the distance, he hears her about to stumble and he smiles viciously. Let the Great be humble; isn't it what her God advises? Let her be shamed! Shameless Sinric follows suit and seems to slow down his own pace. And Rollo's mouth twists ugly. Fools! He is surrounded by fools who prefer to stand for a rebel rather than side him as he is Paris only hope against Bjorn.

When Gisla reaches the Royal Hall, she is out of breath; she must be out of breath as the two men who escort her are but a step behind him. Not turning his head to enjoy how dishevelled she is, he crosses the room and sits on the throne. And he relishes this moment when Ragnar's brother actually sat on the Imperial High Seat. Poets will repeat it again and again, this moment when a North Man made his the Seat of Charlemagne. The world belongs to his kind. The world belongs to his people; the world is his… and she… she is but a thrall. She belongs to him and she is going to learn what it costs to a slave to stand against her master!

If Roland gasps, Sinric shakes his head in approval and … and she… she says nothing. She simply takes notice how he sits, how he makes the seat his. All she sees is that her husband is the legitimate occupant of a throne on which so many of her ancestors have sat for centuries. Rollo fills the throne, embodies what real power is. He does not need a crown to show he is lord. He rules, he makes the throne and the chair welcomes him as its rightful owner. They call him an impossible name she mispronounces; her people call him Dux, Duke. She will now and forever know him as king. He is simply magnificent. A true lion indeed. A lion that prowls and gives a low growl as he calls her in.

\- _"You wanted to explain yourself in the palace, so I am all ears. I have granted your wish. Speak!"_

By now he almost shouts. Alarmed, Sinric turns to Roland who starts looking belligerent. Yet, poised like she had attended such events all her life, Gisla seems not to pay attention…All she concerns herself about is… is not making sense. She walks two steps forward to retreat, to go sideways to retreat again. Then it makes even less sense as she directs Sinric to the right side in front of the throne while the Frank takes in cue his place on the left side. Frank and Norse man standing in front of him as she starts to walk forward in the long central alley which separates the great hall into. And she speaks and it makes no sense at all.

- _"Vir meus venio ad te portans magna…"_

What sort of language is it? It sounds like the mysterious words her priests mumble in church. Is she mad? A cough interrupts her, a cough coming from Roland.

\- _"May I translate, your Highness? You don't understand Roman, Sinric. Right?"_

Over the years, over his many travels, Sinric has met a lot of strange things along learning a lot of foreign languages. Roman or Latin as they call the complicated words Franks use to pray their God. Sinric prides himself in his fluency in Frank…

 _\- "Answer to the Frank!"_

What a waste of time! Does she think he has the whole day to waste about her? Answer Sinric: do you speak Latin or not? Yes or no. Quaking in his fancy boots, the little interpreter dissents. Yes, he has often been to church but he is like Heimdall the faithful. Entering a Christian temple is not like allowing their God to enter one's soul.

- _"This pleasantry has lasted already enough as it is. You will translate what Roland makes out of my wife… apologies!"_

Apologies. Not explanations. Apologies, abject excuses to try and soothe a justifiably angered spouse. And they start again as Gisla steps back; as if there was a real protocol and not a lame excuse to avoid a shouting match, an undignified trimming in front of the good people of Paris. Bowing with a smile which should, yet will not go through his heart, the Princess of the Franks crosses the Aula Regia. If he did not know her better, he could almost swear she is near tears… yet she smiles. She will stop smiling soon. She will cry soon for real.

\- _"Dominus meus, beatum te! Vir meus, veniam ad te portans magna fama"_

At first, Roland is a bit hesitant as unsure of the words, as if the singsong made no sense. As he produces a satisfactory translation which is duly reported in plain Norse, slowly the Frank turns to the princess as if he wants to make sure this is indeed what she intended and she nods. She nods as Roland starts to open his mouth as in silent horror. What is she saying?

\- _"My master, rejoice! Husband mine, I come to you bearer of great news!"_

Why can't Franks speak only one language? Unperturbed, Sinric completes the sentence quite proud of himself until the words start to make sense to him also. What does she say? What do they understand he is missing? His fingers tap the arms of the seat like the claws of a great predator scratch a tree trunk. Is she faking madness to avoid punishment or are there indeed real great news to change the game of cat and mouse he plays with Bjorn?

- _"Humilis servus tuus benedixit Dominum nostrum Iesum Christum."_

If it was not ridiculous to be thinking this in this very moment, Rollo would swear Roland is turning beet root. And Sinric in symmetry turns the same as he translates word for word, painstakingly using kennings and elaborate words.

\- _"Jesus Christ, our L… their Lord has blessed your humble servant."_

It carries on as the two men look as if they wish to be miles away. What does she say to make them so uncomfortable? Again she carries this pretense of an explanation, shameless. It must be exactly when they were presented and she took upon the meeting to copiously insult him. Now this makes sense; she mocks him and the two men are ashamed to be part of the farce. It must be that because…

\- _"Our cup overflows; our household has been blessed!"_

Because surely this is not this thing which has just hit him through like a spear enters the heart of a bear. No, it cannot be…

- _"I am bearing you a child!"_


	14. Part 2 Chapter 6

Protocol says that upon learning the Empress is bearing a child, their first child, the Emperor slowly rises from his throne, making the sign of the Cross on his forehead as he walks down the few steps from the estrade on which he stands. Then he holds his left hand out to his wife who in turn puts confidently hers own right into his as both face the court who in cue bows. The guards open wide the great doors and the windows of the great hall while the courtiers recite the words of Luke.

\- _"Blessed is our Lord, Jesus Christ. Blessed is Frankia and blessed is our Emperor. Blessed are you, sweet mistress amongst women and blessed may the fruit of your womb be."_

People start shouting Noel, Hallelujah as outside the ordinary citizens of Frankia upon hearing the noise in turn start rejoicing and it is wave of joyful love who meets the happy couple as they show up at the palace balcony. Money is thrown to the poor and wine flows from the city fountains. Hopefully, on a few months, a precious heir will be born to the Empire; hopefully from Heaven where Good Charlemagne smiles from far above, the Lady Marie has prevailed upon Her Divine Son to grant the royal couple a son.

Protocol says; Frank protocol speaks clearly. What says the protocol Norse Men follow? Certainly however wild and uncouth, the Men from the North are not savage enough to ignore this capital moment of their life. This precious moment when the household is not more a duo but a nest. Rollo is going to be so happy!

The berserker jerks upright from the throne; the wolf jumps out from his seat. The bear stands up and Hell breaks loose.

She has dared! She is not different from the others. Lagertha playing the faithful wife and remarrying with weeks from separating from Ragnar. Aslaug, dutiful spouse whoring around while her children are under the watch of a servant. Siggy bedding him as the funeral pyre of her husband has just sunk. Siggy bedding Horik, bedding Erlendur, bedding who else… How dare they!

Sinric does not dare to move, does not dare to translate one word of the high tide of insults which flow from Rollo. His leader speaks Frank with a heavier accent than the trader-spy puts in. The great warrior accent or not generally insists on having a minimal use of Sinric skills. Not today!

It is an avalanche of threats, on curses and of the coarsest nature which falls on Gisla's shoulders. A high wave which breaks above her long ship of certitudes as Roland whose Norse is meagre has understood more than her cares to since his hand starts toward the hilt of his sword. Nobody remains alive who insults the honour of the royal and imperial daughter s of his country. Sinric opens the mouth foreseeing a bloodbath frozen in fear while stealthily the Frank guard slowly moves to stand in front of the princess to protect her from the crazy beast who is surely going to kill her if nothing is done.

Gisla does not understand one word except one thing her husband is rejecting their child. Just as a dagger is twisting in her heart, she feels like a doe mortally wounded by a cruel hunter. If tears abound in her eyes, she will not give the brute the benefit of her despair. Charlemagne great granddaughter bites her lips and stands her ground pushing ruthlessly Roland aside.

- _"How dare you calling me?"_

Whatever she has said has the effect of waking up Rollo from his rage stance; he looks at her giving her with disgust as he walks down the steps of the stage.

 _\- "God has blessed us and you call me what?"_

He is now standing in front of her, towering her. A giant of a man overshadowing a miserable dwarf of a wife. He starts in Frank.

\- _"Who is"_ and she looks as if she does not understand.

 _\- "When.. I mean how"_ and he knows he is not using the right words and it enrages him more .

\- " _God has given.._."

 _\- "God has given nothing… yes God! Naturally God. Well, let's God speak!"_

God. His God. Odin. Odin will speak. From ever his brother has it that they are the sons of Odin. As Odinssons, they have been given some magical powers. They can survive perilous wounds which can kill strong men; they can see through liars for what they are. Importantly they know if their bedfellow is carrying their child. Ragnar has this power; Bjorn knew for sure about the condition of his shield maiden. Today is the day to find out of his father is really a god.

In a single move, he shoves away the two witnesses and lifts up high his left hand above Gisla letting it fall as fast as a great bear falls on whom has offended it. The threat leads his wife to protect her face with her forearm, missing that the hand was aiming at her belly.

Sinric and Roland gasp in unison; a blow of this strength can kill. Can certainly snuff out the life of the innocent spark of life hidden in the royal womb. Yet the hand lands softly on Gisla as in spite of the snarling face of her husband. And stays on her belly like it was glued to it.

The two other men look at him, look at Rollo not understanding. They look at the princess in the great silence which has followed the movement of the Nordmanni hand. It has started like a physical assault albeit the princess has certainly not been slapped and the flow of insults is certainly dry. A few seconds ago, the great hall was full of roars and yells yet now it is just silence. Silence and immobility.

Rollo is like in a trance, here albeit so far away. He sees his wife and in the corner of his eye, the two very surprised men who look at each other making faces like they do not understand what is happening. They do not understand; how could they? She understands; she understands or she guesses.

Gisla stands numbed by fear at the beginning and now immobile letting the large hand ever so slowly hover her yet flat belly. She knows. She knows and she does not gasp like the two fools who see the warrior kneel in front of Charles daughter as he puts his ear against her abdomen.

The warrior does not bother if Sinric thinks him unmanly as he kneels in front of Gisla; Rollo is so far away. Away in a world nobody but him can see.

A world of blood. But neither the blood of battle nor the blood sacrificed to honour the Gods. This world is the world of blood as the life giver. A world where blood is of infinite nuances and textures, a blood which flows like great rivers do and he is sailing on one of them. Where does this lead him he does not know, nor does he care a he is under the spell of this magical realm. Before he has time to realize it, he faces a great wall yet the gates open to him without fuss and he finds them here.

The Mothers of Yore, the Goddesses of the Past before Freya, Frigga and Sigyn took their autonomy. Three women united into one divine being. Here they are and he does the least surprised to see Freya looking like battling Lagertha in full shield maiden mode protecting… protecting what from him? At her side Aslaug sits nurturing and regal, covering from his sight something he knows is of tremendous importance for him. And the last woman remarkably like Siggy hovering in front of a curtain which he must push aside. Though he has no enmity with them along being no moron stupid enough to defy goddesses, he must get through them; he must see what they hide from him. As he is about to seize his great ax, the three women are melting into a pink fog quickly disappearing to leave him access to his goal. All this is happening in a world paced by the sound of a shield beaten with a sword as warriors do when they engage into battle or they salute a king. As he draws closer, the sound becomes louder and louder. The blood tapestry is lifted as easily as Haraldson leather curtain was in faraway Kattegat; this is when he rests his eyes on it and gasps.

Gasps for air as a man near drowning who is saved at the last reprieve and he is back in the great hall. Back and still on his knees in front of Gisla. Gisla, sweet, lovable, Sweet, loyal wife. And he smiles stupidly as men do in this situation. When they know they have been wrong and they are happy to have been proven mistaken. He smiles sheepishly at first then more and more broadly. Yet nothing has changed. Roland is still angry though now he starts to look a bit pleasantly surprised; Sinric who was foreseeing the worst nods like a proud father… or a teacher who has elicited from a slow witted apprentice a good answer. Frowning downward, the Frank woman looks at the great oaf, the thundering beast who was calling over her and her family so many intolerable slurs with revulsion as if he was smitten by some plague. He must prove her he has got his senses back and he breaks the very long silence which rules over the Royal Hall since his hand has almost hit the princess.

\- " _Do you hear it? Do you?"_

Pushing gently with his head, he tries to give his ear the widest access to the drumming sound which has taken hold of his mind. Thus time, the two men feel better, feel assured there will be no blood bath as Rollo wears the silly grin first time fathers wear to tell their friends that they have now serious responsibilities. The crazy bear is not going to tear apart his princess; the crazy duke seems very happy kneeling! In this case, he can kneel a long time. How did he dare? How could he? Roland is about to break the silence which is ruling again when Sinric puts a finger over his mouth as to beg him to remain silent. Mortals do not speak when Gods talk.

Once again, he is in this world of joyful bursting life. Once again the three goddesses meet him to dissolve into a pink mist and once again he gets on the other side of the curtain to rejoice into the beautiful sight which meets his eyes. She is there; naturally she is there and in her arms she holds the cause of the sound which has invaded his ears.

She is just like the mortal woman Christians worship under the name of the Lady, the mother of the Crucified God whose face is in all the churches he has stormed into. Though lately, his visits have been more civil.

In her arms, sleeps a child, an infant at peace with the world, a child who knows he is loved. Now the three goddesses are back and they speak again. Once again just like last time, they all speak with one voice and he knows they do not lie. And what they say leaves him reeling drunk yet so happy. Please! Good mothers, generous goddesses of life, please repeat it! They humour the silly mortal.

\- _"Your son!"_

Once again he gasps and once again he is thrown away from the world of Life. Yet, he does not mind at all even if he feels totally intoxicated, barely able to say two coherent words in a row. He looks at Gisla who could be the goddess of suspicion. Do not doubt, my woman. All is fine, all is wonderfully fine. His wounded leg is not fine as it grumbles against the awkward position giving him the push he needs to decide to stand up again and he seizes her in a bear hug giving her the fright of her life while Roland stands aghast except the bear is not reaping apart his prey. Except the great wolf is licking his mate or rather kissing her making the Frank wish he was outside the room. Really, the duty of an Imperial guard is not to watch his master frolicking with the Empress or what actually serves as empress!

- _"We have witnessed the … good news… Are we allowed to share it?"_

He may have no idea of the fine details of the Imperial protocol which rules over each step of the life of Charlemagne heirs, it remains Sinric knows when it is time to leave the stage. The wife has informed her husband she is heavy with his child and the husband has acknowledged the life spark as his own. A man with finesse knows when it is time to leave the happy parents together; a man who is about to inform his people their leader blessed by the Gods is at long last to become a father is a man who is going to be laden with gifts as the bearer of good news. It is time to leave!

Taking and pulling Roland's hand the little interpreter walks toward the doors followed by the Frank who does not want to leave his princess as she may still be in danger from the mad quirks of her husband. Tired of this rebellion, Sinric turns to Roland, utters one word as it was explaining everything:

 _\- "Berserker!"_

And they leave in cue. There is no doubt Sinric will explain that the cast of warriors to whom Rollo belongs, is odd, very odd yet mostly innocuous. There is no doubt Roland will not be one hundred per cent convinced; yet both men will agree their presence is no more needed. What is needed now from them is to become the heralds of this wondrous news.

At long last, Rollo the Barren has been forgiven. Rollo is to become a father. Surely this is a good omen for his Nordmanni. The Gods want them to settle in Frankia in a realm which is theirs, which is not Kattegat. A realm rich and fruitful!

Noel, Noel! The Franks who were standing at the bottom of the palace stairs are kissing each other, hugging each other and some Nordmanni are included in their embraces. The realm is saved! Once again, there is a wait but what a joyous one! An heir to Charlemagne has been announced. An heir to the crown.

The Austrasians, the Franks on the other side of the River Rhine, the Lotharingians will not impose their rule over Frankia. Gisla may be a woman barred from the throne because of her sex, she is Charles one and only heir and her child. Sorry her son-to-be, because they are going to pray for a son, will be Charles's long awaited male heir.

Upon hearing the good news, the priests who were standing in the vicinity of the palace like frightened rabbits worried as they were at the anger displayed by the ferocious Dux of the Nordmanni run to their churches belfries and ring the bells. Pull the long ropes to get the heavy bells to sing and the bells sing. Loudly, joyfully as it has been so long; as they are tired of playing the toll of the dead. They ring and ring happily to the heavens. We are having an heir, we are happy to bring you great news. The realm has been blessed, the duke has been blessed.

Outside, outside the palace, outside the courtyards empty for most of them and the streets now domains of resting and wounded warriors; outside the great walls, outside on the other side. The side of Bjorn, Bjorn and his berserkers, his shield maidens. Outside where Kattegat rules, they do not understand. They are used to the Dead Toll; these bells they know naught of. Except they are happy. Happy and proud. Happily defiant. And Bjorn does not understand; yet he understands enough that something has happened which may bring him a crushing defeat…

The proud bells have chased the black birds which have of late taken to dwell into their towers. These black crows. These carrions of sinister augury. In the sky, the good nuns are freeing the doves which are cared by them. White doves, white birds of love taking the control of the skies. Chasing all these ugly ravens and they coo these doves of love. They sing their joy as they hunt away the ravens of death. Life rules, love rules.

Paris will survive; Frankia will survive. The duchy of the traitor will live on; will endure despite its enemies!

A raven lands on the edge of a window overlooking the Great Hall as if it is peering inside though whatever is said by the standing couple is surely inaudible to the ears of the creature. Ruffling his feathers, disgusted by the doves, the bird flies away.

"Tell me, what do you see? What say the Gods?"

News of Rollo's treason has reached Kattegat. Some like Floki the Cursed say they warned Ragnar a long time ago his brother would always betray him; some say the relapse was brought by Ragnar himself who has not paid attention to his grieving brother. If the king had but acknowledged the great sacrifice made by Siggy, Rollo would have remained on the straight and narrow path upon which men of honour walk. If Ragnar Lothbrook had really cared for his sibling he would not have taken for granted the fidelity of the berserker.

Deep inside his heart, Ragnar is wounded by this disloyalty. It is a treason too many. As soon as he is fit again to raid, he will sail to Frankia and slay this jealous brother who festers in his side like a sloughy wound. Yes, he will kill Rollo if Bjorn has not already cut short the life of the traitor. He needs to know and the Seer will tell him.

"I see that the bear had married the princess… it is strange. I was seeing a bear when I was seeing Rollo and now… Not that it matters"

Ragnar is impatient. He cuts the old man by a snapping 'what matters?'

"I see a wolf; a great wolf standing by his mate under the shadow of a cross. I see a pup and another one and…. By Freyr, I see so many pups. Ragnar, you have and will have many sons; but your brother late as he is, will have just as much if not more and they will wear crowns like their father and grandfather."

Ragnar does not care about his nephews; Ragnar wants to know if Bjorn will punish the rebel, the outlaw.

"I see your brother will be the one, and not you, giving life to what is dear to your heart. I see Bjorn sailing this tides-less sea of his thanks to his uncle. You will not see Bjorn again for a very long time, King Ragnar. The dragon slayer will bless Kattegat"

As usual, Ragnar has to accept he will understand too late the meaning of the Seer prophecy. Sighing, he wonders about his nephew. A nephew. At long last, his brother will stop complaining about not being his equal. Athelstan's God has forgiven the prodigal son; has Odin finally forgiven his traitorous brother? Rollo is but one of the king's many concerns. The Seer has more to say about…

A raven flies in the sky of Kattegat and a raven lands on the roof tiles of Paris palace. Fluttering gently over the old Roman tiles, the bird reaches the edge of the roof and lands lower near an open window. It searches for worms and the small rodents who in truth rule over the dwellings inhabited by men.

Nearby, a balcony stands above a courtyard; a balcony which is attached to this building under the name of Throne room. Inside there is silence, Gisla is full of resentment and her husband is doing the best he can to unruffled her anger.

\- " _You, you have called me… names. How horrible are you to jump on the occasion of the announcement of my pregnancy to avenge from… from..."_

He is sorry, so sorry and so happy. About to say Odin has finally lifted from his shoulders the curse of sterility thrown at him for his many betrayals, Rollo stops short. He is still a traitor. How can Odin forgive him when he is a traitor to Kattegat, to Ragnar and to the Gods? He is married to a Christian; he knows that the child she is bearing is to become a Christian. His son, Odin's grandson will be Christian. How can Odin forgive him this betrayal of kin? Unless… unless it is not Odin who is blessing him but her God. The Christ God is a lot more powerful that he has taken him to be. The magic of the Christ God is stronger than Odin.

Not only he is about a king and he owns something of a realm but he has married his very own sweet shield maiden. A princess for whom he is ready to slay any dragon suicidal enough to get in his way. A wife just as courageous as Lagertha, as wise as Siggy and just as caring for her people as Aslaug cares for her children. A woman whose pedigree Horik would approve of, this time. The mother of his son.

\- _"You had thrown and generously at it mud at my name, mocking my honor. … I had to keep us equals so our son knows we are together in for him"_

Lame as it stands the excuse can be accepted as it implies his heart was not behind the words. It is just a shove payment for another shove and no rancour leaving bad feeling standing like a wall between the future parents.

- _"You must recognize you were hurtful and that our baby..."_

 _\- "Our son!"_

 _\- "Our baby is legitimate!"_

Naturally he accepts the child as his. He knows, the goddesses have told him. Her goddess has told him. Not that she accepts she worships a goddess or that the saints of her church sound a lot like minor deities. His son, their son is fine and it remains that really, she should be with her father. A sieged city is not the place to be for a first-time mother. A good thing is emerging from this chaos; there are some other women in Paris. Just as disobedient as her though and he does not approve of rebellious wives. The growl is gentle as a great wolf does when it stands near its foolish mate. Really, sieged city as the ideal place to spend the perilous months of a pregnancy not to mention a delivery if the siege is still ongoing when the moment comes. He feels her shudder against him at the word but she does not admit fear. No, his she-wolf is fearless.

- _"Our child will be a Christian"_

 _\- "Naturally he will worship the Christ God"_

She searches his eyes as if he was lying and is satisfied by what she reads. Now, only now, does she surrender herself to his bear hug, this great embrace in which she is lost.

- _"So… you are happy. Really happy?"_

The sound he makes means nothing, means a world to her.

- _"And you, you are happy? Naturally you are. Still a siege is not the place for you two. Our son needs quiet!"_

 _\- "It is a baby. Only God knows and decides of the sex of an unborn child"_

 _\- "It is a boy, Take it from me. My brother would say the same if Ragnar was here. It is a boy"_

She has not paid attention to Sinric's comment on the oddities of berserker. This obsession with a son can lead to a disappointed husband and she must get through him nobody will know what the sex of their baby is until the last moment when the child leaves her womb.

\- _"It may be a girl!"_

 _\- "You better get along with it: we are expecting a little warrior… and if you dare steal from me the right to name our son I shall spank you. Hard!_ "

The threat brings back a rebellious spark in her eyes as she mutters she knows better than take from him the important ritual of the naming of a child.

- _"Why haven't you told me about…?"_

 _\- "I was unsure. It was early days. During the siege, last year siege I mean, I became irregular in the flows. Because of the anxiety. I thought here I go again. Then I start being sick every morning from the time we left Pontoise…"_

 _\- "Every morning? My poor dear. No wonder I found you pale when you came out of the wall tower. You must rest! And I will lock you up until you learn and obey … for the sake of our son"_

As if the bird had listened to enough human nonsense, it flies again away losing itself in the meanders of the streets it flies over.

Because now is the time for the parents to share their joy … and their doubts. Now the time has come for the great wolf to take care of his she-wolf. She needs him. They need him. They; his family. His very own family. Gisla let herself dive into her husband strong arms, She feels now quite safe as she knows this life she carries is safe too. Rollo will protect their little son … son. She allows herself a shy smile as she wonders if her husband assumption she carries a boy is contagious…

- _"Besides, I am not duped. I know you have plenty of sons up in the North"_

She could not be more wrong. Her first born is his first born. This child is their very own first born. Looking at it in doubt, Gisla scrutinizes her husband sharply to give in.

- _"You see. I am jealous. You… you may be like an acquired taste; it remains I feel so jealous of your past"_

His past is full of wasted time; his past was been spent raiding and making mistakes though he has learned from each of them. If she believes herself to be jealous, she does not know what envy can be. Blessed are the Gods who have protected her allowing a happy childhood to the girl she was! While she has grown under the careful eyes of loving parents, he has made a fool of himself so many times. He has been a rake, a drunkard; he has been a traitor killing his own best friend. Arne his name was. What does she think of Arne as a name? No. No problem, they still have a few months to discuss names. Envy, jealousy he has known and drunk to their cup. But not to the one of joy, never to the one of joy to know the belly of his lover is getting enlarged by his endeavour. This child, her child is his son. Thanks to her father he has now his own family and he is sincere when he blesses the emperor.

His family. In his ears, he hears his father teaching his sons. What does a man do? What is the first duty of a man? And he hears Ragnar' voice in unison to his reply it is to protect his family.

The great wolf has found his pack and his family. Nobody and it includes the dragons of the North will put his family in danger. The arms of her husband tighten causing Gisla to look up at him questioning. But he smiles at her and she puts back her head against his shoulder, content of his love.

She does not see how grim he looks at the black birds which are resettling on Paris walls now that the bells are quiet again. Not that it matters. His enemy is not his wife; the man who threatens his family is Bjorn, son of Ragnar. A man he once called nephew; a man he has once and many times and a long time ago wished he was his son. A time which is no more. Nobody will put his family in danger. The seasoned bear is going to fight the young bear. To the death.


	15. Part 3 Chapter 1

As you must have guessed by now, this story main hero is not Rollo and Gisla though naturally in his absence or rather should I write in his making they are essential. Ragnar's nephew has to be conceived, then he has to be acknowledged by his parents who in turn are getting the nest ready. What best nest can it be but Paris Palace as Rollo's child is truly Charlemagne heir. Admittedly a very young heir in much need of his great wolf of a father to protect him. Somewhere in season 3, the bear, the lonely berserker has died. Kattegat misfit who was jealous of his brother has found his pack and will do whatever it takes to protect his family. His new family. Will his decision be accepted by his past family in Kattegat? As we enter part 3. we are nearing the arrival of the prince and someone is about to meet his father. The cast will include Lagertha, Charles and Odo. Eudes of Paris (his modern name) is a hero in France. Michael Hirst has decided otherwise. So be it. Sorry, my king. A Normandy beach is being very patient. Like you who has waited 2 weeks before geeting the previous chapter. You are lucky, here is another one.

From this day, he has taken to hold the meetings between his troops in Charles's Great Hall. Nordmanni and Franks come and discuss how to strengthen the walls, where there is need to reinforce troops. How much food is left? How low is the oil in the reserves? … Every reunion is about less defences and having to make do with less. Yet Paris holds. After the meeting, before going to their chambers, Rollo stops and looks at the River where his wife has seen him sailing for the very first time. Naturally he was not dreaming Paris contained such treasure and she was not looking for him. He wanted to plunder and rape apart this city which dared to defy the Gods and she wanted him dead, all of Ragnar people dead. A year later, he is inside keeping his precious treasure from the talons of the birds of prey he knows the Men of Kattegat to be. A year later or so, he is Paris last chance against Bjorn Vikings and he is going to be a father. If not for his nephew, he certainly would be dancing naked on the sandy banks of the Seine. The Seer was right: The Gods have been very good to him. Already, as the Sun sets down, he can see fires alighted in the camp across the River. The warriors must be about as hungry as the good people from Paris. The peasants have deserted their fields and the harvests have been burned down; Bjorn must be ravenous. He could kill for a decent bite of fresh meat accompanied by a soup of beans. We are equal, my nephew… we are not. At least, I partake of the excellent wines stored in the Imperial cellars and you do not! Charles has left Paris a long time ago leaving a foreigner to rule and sit in Charlemagne throne. Taking to live in Charlemagne palace for granted. Prowling in its corridors, entering each room as it was its own and taking notice of each hidden treasure. Ragnar, you do not know a tenth of what fantastic wealth it contains!

He sits in the rather cumbersome throne where no number of cushions makes it comfortable. It feels as if Charlemagne has wanted to make the occupant restless ready to jump off it and go away to fight … as true kings are wont to do. Real kings do not loll on their throne busy as they are at planning conquests of realms, or readying to wreak retribution on the head of traitors. If perchance, peace blesses their kingdom then hunt it must be. Kings are restless creatures like wolves which only moment of content is near their mate and their offspring.

Restless he is and for good reasons. Standing in front of the barred window where so long ago his wife has stood watching with dismay Ragnar long ships daring to show up under her city walls, Rollo stands watching the very same event. Just as much as his wife, he feels the outrage of seeing the great river insulted by the presence of Frankia's scourge. How much a year or so can change a man…He likes to stand here alone lost in his thoughts. Here all becomes clear in his head. Here they have met for the first time not knowing that in Asgard the Gods had already interwoven their destinies...

Rainy autumn has been followed by harsh winter; now it is spring and the stalemate carries on. As if nothing has changed, life goes on in Charles's capital. The whores distract the soldiers, the nuns pray and the faithful wives are at their daily chores taking care of their families. When all these ladies are not at the foot of the walls taking care of the wounded. Then and only then they speak to each other for virtuous recluses do not engage with light skirts, grand ladies do not acknowledge base born females… Yet when Bjorn tries to get to the Gates, all of them have but one voice. The veiled nuns bring fresh dressings cut straight from the palace elegant tablecloths and bed sheets while the improvised nurses put on bandages to the wounded. There is unity in Paris, there is only one people. Franks and Nordmanni alike, they are all bound together at surviving protecting their city, their people. Bjorn has succeeded where Charles and he have failed; Ragnar's eldest has created this. A united people standing against the oppressor worshiping together the same God … or almost. His men do still wear Thor's hammer amulets around their necks like he does. His berserkers, his shield maidens were not that much different from the Franks; they bled the same, rejoiced at the same causes and cared just as much for their family. As if she was able to see through his unravelling thoughts, he hears her steps getting closer, a slight pant as she climbs the high step needed to reach the window followed by her soft nuzzle as she asks to be held. This is her last month and her belly cannot get any larger; this is their last month as a couple. In less than a moon cycle, she will be holding their new-born son in her arms and it feels good. Frightening thought, it feels good.

They are prisoners behind high walls, free to do as they please, unable to leave Paris, at the mercy of a fiercer assault against the Gates. Free hostages. Prisoners protected from their keepers. Safe yet. For how long? His right arm holds her safe while his hand lingers on her abdomen where his unseen son is moving about. When she has taken the first time around his large hand to allow him to feel the movements of their child, he swears he could have cried. Of happiness. The Christ God and his Blessed Mother are not the cruel Gods who reign over Kattegat. Christians say their God is a God of Love and this much he believes. As his fingers caress the fabric of the dress under which the marvel of Life is busy doing whatever babies do, he enters again and again the world of Life. By now he knows by heart how it looks yet he does not mind. He could spend his life satisfied sitting at her feet watching the little one sleeping in her arms. Safe, just as safe as his father is protected by the wall of his mother womb. Prisoners maybe but free to be basked in pure love.

Bjorn, what a fool you have been to allow your maid to play the part of the fool running Egbert' errands! When all that matters, is in this moment, when you are so happy your heart could burst. When the Gods are share with you the magical gift of life. Ragnar, why have you deserted the farm of our parents to raid away? All the crowns of the world are worthless compared to the circle of the loving arms of your family. Floki, how dare you complain of happiness! You are just as much an idiot as poor Torstein has been. The gift of life is the most precious power of this world and it includes Asgard.

He may be a prisoner yet he enjoys every moment spent inside his gaol; he is a lot freer they all will ever be. He knows the great secret: when you have your family, you do not need to raid away. You do not need to be famous, to have you name pronounced with reverence by skalds. You are just happy and happy people do not care about their story being told…

Bjorn long ships may sail the Seine, his warriors may surround the city standing in the middle of the River, and he is free. His people are safe like in winter when the snow covers the land, when icy winds cut one's skin; yet inside the houses fires burn high warming their inhabitants. Yet inside the soil far from the cold surface, the seeds of next spring are busy growing for next summer harvest. Snow and Ice will melt, the blizzards will return up North. Next spring, the seedling will burst out of the ground and a new oak will start growing. An oak; he only hears the beating heart of his child. How comes he knows his son is born to a great future. He knows, he can swear it that this unborn child is promised to a magnificent future. And it falls on his shoulders to be the strong one. To be the one who assures her that her bad dreams are not omens but nightmares. That all will be fine when he does not have the faintest notion of it will turn out.

He knows what happens; sometimes it does not end well. Sometimes the child is deformed and has to be exposed. Unlike Ragnar, he will do it; he cannot afford a child unable to fend for himself. Frankia climate may be kinder to Man; it is not smart to allow a child who is too sick to survive without constant attendance. Yet he knows his son will be a perfectly limbed child. Unlike Ragnar, he has not forced his wife. The gift of life has been willingly received and Gisla is not Aslaug. She is not fussy as his brother's wife. Feisty as she may be, she is not selfish. She cares for all her people and it includes his people. Under strict orders not to return to the ramparts, she has occupied her time in dealing with the infirmary and the warehouses. In making sense of this garrison which has turned to be like a microcosm of Midgard.

Or of Kattegat. There is the earl and his lady; there are his trusted advisers, His warriors and their companions. You have the women of little virtue and the honourable ladies. You have the local priests… but no seer in Frankia. Seers are wizards to be jailed and killed as nobody must play with what Christians call Divine Providence. What he calls in his heart Fate and the Will of the Gods.

The Gods have willed him to raid and now they will him to rule just like they have wanted a disheartened lost soul. A man with a cold hearth awaiting for him after a raid, a lonely broken man. When he has realized Siggy would never be here on the quay waiting for him, he has wished for the Gods to stop it. He has tried to get groggy this horrible pain; all he has earned is one of the most severe beatings of his life. What is this Paris? These words, he has slurred. Ragnar who like Odin knows so much hidden things has smiled and promised all the raid of a lifetime, a raid of such glory he has followed his brother hoping to die nobly in battle. In a way he has died but not as he had planned. True, he has climbed the ladders against the thick walls but when he has fallen hearing the crows, he was not dead to enter Valhalla; he was fully alive ready to capture the woman with the red banner. From the moment he has latched on her, the great wolf lies in a world of vibrant colours which do not exist up North. The bear is a solitary beast but the wolf belongs to a pack. The seasoned warrior has found his people when he has found her. Through her, the gates of a future which includes a wife, a child, a family, a people and his own realm have been opened. A world where the Sun shines for him. A world where Ragnar is not included; not that he has forsaken his brother. Ragnar can rule and raid up north; Ragnar can be king in Kattegat, Mercia and why not in England. Everywhere but here. Here is Rollo's land, here is his homestead. Ragnar can keep their father's farm; take over Horik's crown and the lands belonging to Jarl Borg. But not his land, not the land of his wife. Not the Capital of the Emperor.

This thought about his father-in-law draws from his lips a wistful smile. Does the emperor know he is about to become a grandfather? Rare are the children who know their grandparents; his son seems to be lucky in this game of survival. Not that he wishes the little warrior to meet his long dead parents. His father, his mortal father… stepfather was nothing but an unpleasant bugger, a wicked stepfather, as evil as they make them in tales of yore. Because of the old man, the decision to leave the farm was quickly taken once he has got his arm ring. Too bad for little Ragnar stuck at the farm but he has had no choice. It was leaving the farm, leaving his father alive or risk his anger get the best of him and be cursed as a parricide. He has hated his father for his cruelty to their mother; not understanding the reason of the old man behind his foul mood. Not that his mother has been especially kind to him. Ragnar was more smiling, more good-humoured than his dark horse of a brother. Ragnar has known how to soothe their father without much trouble; Rollo has taken from him the bad habit to try and drown his dark moods in alcohol. Charles is a good father, has been a good husband. He may be a pitiful king, Rollo owes him his happiness. Take that, father. I prefer this Frank to you…

A Frank who is Emperor. Life has these quirks; an emperor and his smiles this time wryly thinking at the unsuspected and thoroughly undeserved gifts the Gods throw at mortals. The cowardly king of Western Frankia is now the Emperor. Just the Emperor. His two brothers have died in short interval while he was traveling south toward the Pope. Bjorn has been deprived of the capture of the last male heir to Charlemagne discounting the little warrior. This unborn child is next in line to inherit a realm going from the Sea with no tides to the Northern border not far from Hedeby. From the great Occidental Ocean to the Emperor of Constantinople. His baby son wears a crown still in his mother's womb!

He knows this much thanks to the homing pigeons which regularly bring news to the sieged city. It may be a trickle but the news is real. Charles relishes his power as Emperor. Just as such. Plain Emperor. Egbert of Wessex who relishes at being called Bretwalda must be green with envy. Scheming, traitorous Egbert who certainly acts a lot more kingly than timid Charles will ever be is limited to his island while Charles basks in Continental Imperial power. So much power and so many decisions to take the little man is now riding here and there to assert his imperial crown and forgets about his daughter, his capital and his original share of Charlemagne empire.

Ravens of war defeated by meek pigeons. Pigeons trained to fly back home since the Romans and he is now admitting to an enormous respect for these people of the past of Frankia. Athelstan once said Egbert' people believe Romans were giants. Giants, he does not know though they must have been very strongly to lift all these stones. Certainly clever giants. Homing pigeons… he chuckles. Bjorn, you are betrayed by humble poultry. Birds which have played an honourable part when Charles the Hammer, son of Pippin, father of another Pippin and importantly the name giver to her father 's grandfather has announced his people that he, the Mayor of the Palace, the Duke of the Franks had defeated in battle at Tours the Southern invaders. For all his might, it was the poultry which has flown to Paris and Frankia herald of the great victory. Franks may not be as strong as our people Bjorn but they use their brains. They think! They do not bring their very own precious shield maidens on a battle field to be grievously injured, their mind horrifically shattered. If Gisla is in a sieged city, it is not because of him. No, it is not. It is because Gisla has inherited from this Charles a defiant courageous heart. Do not mock the Franks, Bjorn. They have hidden depths you would envy.

Rollo and Gisla take care of the North Men; Paris has not fallen in the hands of Vikings: all is fine. Now let Charles deal with the Bavarians or the Magyars. Let him play emperor and forget about his family… Good thing Rollo cares about his!

The crows do not like doves, they do not like pigeons. Odin favourite birds have to share these skies and they do not like it at all. The church bells distract them; they prefer the side of Bjorn where this time around some plague is running in the camp of the besiegers. Last year, Paris soldiers; this year, Ragnar warriors. This is true equality brother!

 _\- "Do you think they will attack tonight? … Like you did on the little bridge?"_

 _\- "Who knows? We cannot be complacent. We hold and they simply wait for our grip to weaken"_

The princess bites her lip before asserting her father will come back. Her father will return with a whole army of fresh troops. Charles will defeat Bjorn. Charles better comes back soon. Assaults after attacks, skirmishes followed by night raids have made a lot of inroads in the number of fit soldiers, on able Nordmanni. The stock of food is running dangerously low… All what Bjorn needs to do is wait and let the rotten fruit fall before his foot crushes it. He has added more scars to his weary frame; he is about or almost as slim as when he started his very first raid. Gisla does not complain but he knows a sieged city is not the place to be to deliver one's first born.

What will happen if Bjorn manages to get inside? What will happen to the women and the children? Will Bjorn act like his father ordering the death of Horik's wife and their innocent daughters? Or will he be like Ragnar again merciful to Gisla like he has been to pregnant Torvi? For him and the men, it is going to be death… Not that he fears death, He has lived a long life. If he has to be blood-eagled so be it. But Christ God, spare her, spare our innocent son, please! If his family is safe, the great wolf can die content.

Why is it that her God offers his own blood to his followers and his Gods ask it as sacrifice? Why it that Blood is Salvation for Christians and Odin wishes for Death? Who knows why the Gods are so different from a climate to another?

- _"Night is coming. Go to bed. I shall follow soon. There is one thing I would like to see"_


	16. Part 3 Chapter 2

She resents the idea of not being with him when he has these dark moods when he seems lonely, so lonely like… lost at the top of a mountain. Her father is like that when suddenly he freezes seeming here yet clearly seeing things she does not. Like entering a world she has no place into or a land which is not of this mortal plane. Black dog days… She has seen the great mountains when she has travelled East to Lyon; she can imagine one could be cut from humanity when the fog rises cutting the top of the mount from downward. The white summit look like a small island … Could Paradise look like this and down far beneath it miserable mortals like her dream at it, long at it. Again she nuzzles her head against his chest. She likes doing this gesture; she really likes doing that because she can feel then his arm embracing her giving her the feeling she is on this little island in the sky with him and she is safe. She is safe with him thanks to him. How do a bare few months change one's life!

She had been so full of hate, spewing venomous words at him, hurling as many volleys of biting words like the arrows shot by her soldiers against his people. She was so mad at him like he was the cause of her misery which was true. She was miserable and he was the ideal culprit, the perfect target of her anger. Why was it that she was surrounded by buffoons , men with limp wrists? Why was it that her father was such a miserable cowardly creature? Why was she cursed by being offered marriage by men each one older than the other or worse each one more disgusting than the other? Odo was simply repulsive! Not because of his hand. No; not because of his hand. She would have been proud of his iron hand … She would have hold his severed wrist with pride if she had loved him and she was not loving him. There is something of the night in Odo, something not quite right and she has the instinctive distrust of a healthy young animal when she comes close to him…

Unlike when she is near him… Near him, she feels right and the child her swollen belly is hiding knows it too. She feels how the child loves it when his father hand caresses her wall; the child feels safe. Yes, the child feels safe, knows he is safe. God has indeed blessed them. Rollo means good; Rollo will save Frankia.

Once, she said she was ready to die for Paris; when she got married she was feeling so low like Death had seized her. She was Proserpina entering the realm of Pluto, the dark lord of the Underworld. Stolen for the affection of her people, she had imagined herself sacrificed by Jupiter to save Earth from an eternal winter, like the young goddess of Spring she was thrown to a cruel husband keen on killing Franks, worshiping sinister idols, relishing in spilled blood. A brute unfitting for civilization, a savage animal untamed in need if restraint. To her father she had pretended she was fearless when her heart was been squeezed out of life. When she had kneeled by him in the cathedral, she was like the Blessed Blandina scourged as mortified to marry a man so much beneath her position, sent to an eternal prison. Literally sent to the wild beast… But the creature has proven tame and kind. The creature far from mocking her faith has opened his heart to her Divine Lord; he is still in the dark but he is going in the right direction. Yes the crazy bear, far from tossing her into the air, toying with her piercing her heart with his claws has proven the gentlest of husbands. The mere female who is the true heir to Charlemagne would have died of shame if she had been seen fearful, yet it was with dire trepidations that she had pronounced her marriage vows. It was bad enough she could not stop from being seen crying; at least, her people knew she had not entered willingly into this contract but to show fear: never!

How mistaken she had been; far from renegading on his oath, the monster has stood to his promises. The beast is a true hero worthy of the deeds of Charlemagne noble cousin Blessed Guilhem of Gellone! Just as wise, just as intrepid. If he is ferocious, it is with the blood of the enemies of Frankia. If he is crazy, it is when he plans one of his finest counter-attacks taking his opponents from the rear. They say his name means wolf in his native country. Wolf, the master of the forest will not surrender his crown to the hyenas of the North. Just like Guilhem who fought and defeated the troops of the Emir of Cordoba, Rollo has paid a dear price to his fidelity to the throne of Charlemagne as the scars on his face show. Guilhem is the hero of many poems and songs in Frankia and she knows that soon her Rollo will reach the same fame. And her child will prove as worthy as his father just like her many time removed cousin Ebles, the bastard of Poitou unfairly denied the dukedom of Aquitaine. Odo hates the illegitimate son of Ramnulf, the late count. If the count of Paris had his say, Ebles Manzer would be an exile but he is deprived of his prey. Ebles is free in Aquitaine. Horrible Odo mocks Ebles as a coward when it is due to him that the army of Poitou is arrived too late to fight the Norse men. Ebles has his heart in its right place and if this paragon of martial virtue was still single, he is the only man in Frankia who would deserve her hand. Ebles… she smiles as she remembers with her friends how the little girls of the court used to follow giggling the hero trying to hide behind columns while the boys were pretending to stride like him with their wood swords. She remembers how Ebles had knelt in front of her father swearing his house would always follow the lead of the heirs of Charlemagne. Today, it is her friend who is countess of Poitou and she is duchess of the Nordmanni. Maybe one day Ebles will have a daughter.

Patting her belly, Gisla advises her son that she has a great plan for his happiness and Rollo does not understand except she is happy and if such is the case, then he can be happy too.

 _\- "You need to rest; you are going to need all the strength you can give in the battle to come. A battle I cannot fight for you."_

So… this is why he is gets so silent these days, she thinks. He is like her afraid of what the coming days are going to bring.

Of this battle there will be only two people not fighting against each other but side by side. A warrior for this is the first time he sees combat and a shield maiden herself just as novice as he is. A mother and her son against dark forces. He knows that his own gods, Floki's dark Gods are angry against him; they have not forgiven him. They will never forgive him his betrayal in Northumbria. Now has come the time for him to be punished. They must be circling over her head cackling as they mock the man fool enough to believe he could escape their exacting memory of his many wrongs. How many times has he cursed Odin looking at him like some un-natural father? I have my Odin and you have yours! I have my Odin and I would be loath to worship him! Thor, now…

Thor is different. Thor, he understands the sudden rages, the uncontrollable anger. The dark moods followed by gentle rain. Because for all his might Thor is a God of fertility. Thor cares for the farmer when he pours rain over the fields to allow crops to grow; Thor is a friend in time of need where Odin is indifference. The God of Thunder may be the most redoubtable warrior known in Asgard; he is all but indifference to the plight of humans unlike his dour father. Thor, he has never betrayed. True, he has taken to follow her in her temple but if he worships the Christ God and his Mother Thor knows that he is his stalwart follower. The hammer is around his neck not to leave.

Thor knows; the Thunderer's divine heart is not full of anger and resentment against him. It is Odin, it is Loki the Jotun master of Mischief who like the two ergi they are wish to crush this newfound happiness of his.

Thor has made alliance with good Jotuns as not all the Giants are like the Lord of Misrule. Thor has married Sif, Thor has married Jarnsaxa who has borne him in turn Magni, one of the very few Gods to survive Ragnarok. Gods can and do make alliance between themselves; Gods do and Men can. There is no disrespect for Odin surely when two hearts find each other. The Trickster is in good company with the Gallows Master; both are busy making the lives of Midgard inhabitants miserable!

His hand grasps in a vicious hold his short sword as if it was a neck to let it go. Insulting again and more the Dark Gods, is not going to contribute to a smooth crossing for Gisla and their son. If only he was there to help them but such is the fate of husband to be a witness to a battle he cannot fight, will not win and may lose. Losing the little warrior would be cruel, losing both wife and child is the nexus of his nightmare. To accept to see her suffer, twist and turn like some invisible hands were tearing her body apart, hear her grunt and beg for mercy like Aslaug, to see this and not to be able to help… His little she-wolf needs to be strong, needs to be heroic. His shield maiden will be courageous; will suffer but will deliver a bouncy little warrior. This is what Thor must have done: when his Giant lover is in too much pain he thunders in the sky to distract her from the pain and when the torture relents, the rain washes away her tears. Thor… he is not Thor. He is just a terrified father who fears the worse, who cannot voice his presentiment. Thor, protect my family, please. Please!

Whatever has crossed his mind is now gone, the dark clouds have dissipated as the night enters the sky. Diana rules it now. Jupiter has given to his twin daughter the moon which appeases the souls of these who have nothing to fear of the night. Gisla stretches her tired back before going down the high step from where they stand helped by her husband to gently waddle away. She will sleep or pretend to be, waiting for him while he will tiptoe in the room fumbling around throwing his clothes on the floor yet remembering to pick them up in a more dignified manner to throw them higgledy-piggledy over a chest of clothes. Then there will be silence until at the last moment when she wonders if her ears have deceived her, she feels like him against her back entwine himself to her belly. Then and only then she will in turn put her hand above his like the great hart of the forest does with his doe. She laughs silently as she suspects in her heart that Rollo would be quite surprised if he knew she sees him as a hart or a noble stallion. Do lions care for their mates? Probably. Then he is her noble lion and the king of all the animals. Rollo may be only a duke, but he rules and does not share her love.

A last look over the river, a last anguished thought at what tomorrow may bring where Bjorn is the last of his worries and Rollo leaves the stand taking the directions of Charles chambers. He enjoys the Imperial baths if he does not understand why one needs to perform his ablutions in the company of naked Gods. The naked women make him smile in appreciation of her curves; a good thing Gisla has never entered the rooms not that he is unfaithful. He has always had a roving eye for female beauty; it does not mean he is not loyal. Naked goddesses of the past they say, maybe. And it seems some Romans were not immune to male beauty. He likes the antique berserker, an emperor of old they say. Maybe it is the great Charlemagne who is known to have enjoyed these rooms a lot. Rubbing a much shorter beard than when he sailed to Frankia, he undresses unbothered by the cold water since the engineer who kept it always warm has left with his master to Rome on the flimsy excuse he needed to know how to repair it for good to enter the dark pool. Above it the starry sky is mirrored in the dark pool. All is silence and a few candles which he will snuff when he leaves to avoid a fire. A few breaststrokes and he is already out freshened up and still not sleepy. What he needs is a good talk with his son!

After pulling up his breeches and boots over a loosened shirt, he walks to Charles private room. The room which rules the world!

When he has heard of the name, he has thought another fancy name from my Lord Protocol. Ragnar's room where his brother plans to conquer Frankia or England is his Great Hall or his bed chamber. Rare in Kattegat are the men who own a room for their personal use. Not to eat, not to sleep, not to welcome their warriors. Just a room for one's thoughts. Charles has everything: a room for this and a room for that0. A room to get dressed and a room to wash. A room to sleep and a place to pray. A private dining room and one to hold banquets. And let us not forget the rooms to welcome his court which come in different sizes for different occasions no doubt! Charles certainly gives a lot of work to his joiners, roofers, the artists who paint his walls and the women who weave the many curtains who make this palace a human aimed rabbit warren!

And a room where the emperor can in one glance like Odin see the whole world.

- _"The whole of Midgard? You are pulling my leg, wife!"_

 _-" Yes, the whole world. The whole known world I grant you as Africa is a mysterious continent and Asia is barely known"_

These two names he has heard rarely like Europe. Continent escapes him… Was escaping him until she has opened the door to her father's private office. A place where her father thinks, ponders like Ragnar. If Ragnar could own this room, he would never leave it.

In itself the room is austere. A room where the furniture is old yet unassuming. The walls are divided in two by their width. The lower part is composed of sets of shelves where the emperor stores his correspondence as Franks like Anglo-Saxons believe in the virtue of writing on vellum. They record every action of their lives not relying on the memory of their skalds and seers. Vellum can burn but it can last longer than a human memory when it is stored safely… The shelves are full of scrolls; on their tops there are books. Floki would love to burn them down… Floki is right. It is here where the magic of the Christ God is.

A good magic as it contains so many fascinating things to see and his finger touches with awe the book of poetry written by a Roman a long time ago who also wrote about a great city surrounded by walls of marbles. A city upon which reigned a princess so beautiful men and kings sailed to lay siege to it! Just like Paris. On the page the monk has drawn high walls and at their top here she is this Helena of the past. He has not finished to be read the story by his wife but he guesses the end. At the feet of the wall, there is a little man with a crown who looks at her with cunning eyes like he had when he had seen the woman with the red banner… Tonight will it be Troy?

The little warrior has all the time of his future life to be told the great battles of the emperors; tonight the little warrior will have to tolerate his father ridiculous attempts at poetry.

Romans are not different than North men. What did this poet say? … Ah, yes! Generations of men are like the leaves. In winter, winds blow them down to earth, but then, when spring season comes again, the budding wood grows more. And so with men: one generation grows, another dies away. No difference with his Up onto the overturned keel, clamber with a heart of steel, cold is the ocean's spray, and your death is on its way, with maidens you have had your way, each must die some day!

But tonight inspiration does not come. There is this fear inside biting each and every of his bone making each breath a bit more painful. Yet he must speak to his son.

 _\- "What do you want us to talk about?"_

Silence answers as usual; silence but the answer is coming as his eyes flutter on the walls of the room.

\- _"Where is Troy? Now that's a son after my heart. Why you want to raid it? Your mother says it was burned down a long long time ago? Let's have a look at your grandfather mappa mundi if it is on it?"_

Yes, the mappa mundi as says Gisla or in the plain language of Kattegat Midgard. Midgard, the whole of it. Like Odin who sits on his throne looking down at mortals, the emperor looks at his walls on which a ta..tab…tabula has been painted and it…this is it. Ragnar can carry on trying to find new lands to raid, new seas to sail. All he has to do is to sit in Charles chair which stands by the desk of the king of the Franks and turn his gaze from one wall to another. Behind him, there is a fresco showing God with on each side the king of the time it was painted and his male attendants while on the other side his consort and her ladies. It is gold on gold covered by gold' Gisla has has to hold his inquisitive finger away.

- _"No, you do not touch: it is a real fresco, not a mosaic and no, the stones are not real but real stones were crushed to give the paint this brilliance!"_

 _\- "Do not touch it. Not in your dreams unless you want to discover that prince or not, your father is not above chastising you with a firm hand"_

Father and son enjoy this kind of banter … as if the berserker was going to growl over his little warrior. As if…

Now comfortable in the chair, he looks at the three walls and the hidden door covered by a tapestry on which is women a part of this mappa. This map. Yes, a map. He is not going to speak Frank tonight. His son will speak it enough and more than he likes it. How long will it take to all the little ones born to Frank mother and Norse fathers to forget the language of Kattegat if they stay in Frankia?

Does it matter, father?

 _\- "No, it does not matter as long as you remember from where you come from. As long as you are proud of your uncouth sire and have like him this need to hear the roar of the swords , to shout your battle cry, it's fine. And if it is in Frank, it does not matter. I have seen Franks fighting us. It is different but just as deadly! Now where is it? Your mother has showed me. Your mother knows a lot of things. A lot more things than I know. Your mother is brilliant! So smart! I still cannot believe she has put up with me! She is just as smart as Siggy. Now , you never tell her!"_

Does he speak? Does he dream he is speaking? He does not know; he feels this immaterial presence. Is it the ghosts of little princes of the past or his son? Does it matter? Gisla has told him so many things, explained to him so different so many wonders by simply showing these walls that he is still giddy from the discovery.

Floki, you idiot. Your Gods may be dark and yes- powerful; they have never given you a mappa for Midgard. The Christ God is very powerful: look, look! Brother, you remember when we went to that monastery to come back with Athelstan. Floki thrives to burn down books. Imagine or no, do not imagine. Know the moron must have burned down the door to the world. Midgard could have been ours a long, long time ago. Instead of which we rely on tempests and chance meet raids.

I do not want to hear about this brother of yours.

- _"Well…well, well! Where is Troy? Now this is … Italy and this is Rome. Rome was founded by … she has told me, cannot remember the name… but he was a Trojan. Yes, this is the big advantage with vellum and ink. When there is no jealous shipbuilder, the scrolls last like eternity and you can go back in time, in time, far, far deep in the past in a time where gods walked along humans like they have done in Kattegat and cuckolded your uncle!"_

This is not funny. Mother does not approve of women who betray their husbands.

His son's mother does not because she is loyal. She is the most loyal of wives. Siggy may have been given the name of the lady of the fetters, supposedly a mark of fidelity. Sigyn would not be impressed. Not that he is impressed to be his wife's first man. But he is touched by her decision not to try another man; just to try if sex is different. Gisla has chosen to believe him, to trust him, to take as truth all what he says … well most of the time.

 _\- "Your aunt's father was a famous dragon slayer yet your mothe, she does not believe in dragons. Your aunt is not going to like this!"_

Dragon?...Where is Troy, father?

The little warrior is tempted to follow the treat of a flying creature blowing fire but he prefers Troy. Rollo does not bother to ask from which parent the little one has inherited this trait.

Where is Troy, father?

Rollo sighs again before starting. Before Rome was Greece. That means before Romans, they were called Greeks and they lived here. Gisla says Constantinople is not Troy. What does she know of it? Has she visited the city of the emperor of the Romans? The great city which sits proudly on both continents has been the choice of Blessed Emperor Constantine for his new capital when he has rejected old Rome. Surely, he has returned to the traces of Troy to build a bigger, more glorious city.

\- _"And you know what, little man?"_

Tell me father; you smile like when you have a treat for mother and hide it behind your back?

Bjorn, his cousin who is looking all over for a sea with no tides does not know that Rollo knows exactly where it is

\- _"Yes, I have. Constantinople shore is lined by the Mediterranean Sea: the sea in the middle of the land. In the middle of Midgard. Your cousin thinks he is wasting his time at besieging Paris when the access to his hinterland lake is here! Good thing he does not know otherwise I am sure he would… he would…"_

It is not your fault, father.

Bjorn is Bjorn and behaves like Bjorn does because he has only known but a and only one way of life. He knows nothing of books and mappae. He thinks mother's people weak because they are different and do not worship Odin. He is one-eyed like Odin indeed and you, father, you have two eyes and enjoy the best of both worlds. Now, if you do not mind I am terribly sleepy…

This time and only now, the room is really silent. Rollo yawns opening his mouth as wide as he can. The great wolf could do with some sleep too. Bjorn will never know where the sea with no tide lays. The emperor will come back with fresh troops while Ragnar will deal with Egbert whose treason has been leaked to Frank traders. Tonight all is calm and it is time for him to enjoy a good bed with a good mattress along a loving bedfellow.

- _"Good night, little warrior. May your sleep be light and your dreams sweet. You need your rest. There are not so many days now which keep us apart"_


	17. Part 3 Chapter 3

It seems it was but an instant ago when his muddled head has hit the pillow. Just as tired but fully alert now, he hears banging on the door before he is fully awake. Gisla shuffles with more precautions out of the bed walking slowly to the dead candles but the one near their bed and starts lighting them all.

The bang gets louder and yelling voices join it.

\- _"They attack! They have started a night attack! It's the Petit Chatelet. The bridge is under threat!"_

The small fort which stands and defends the bridge sitting on the mainland. The unassailable fort which has defied again and again Ragnar. The fort the raiders have not been able to enter despite having free rein over the bridge when Ragnar has conned the Franks with his fake death. It is under attack. Bjorn is trying to succeed where he has failed. This time without treachery, the North Men are ready to enter Paris

He dresses quickly, snatches his warrior belt, checks if swords and axe are in good order as if he had been careless when he last used them and is about to leave when he realizes Gisla is standing up by the door waiting for him. Once again, he curses his nephew. This is not the place for a soon to be mother; this is not the way to behave to one's aunt.

The girl is as fearless as ever; her smile might be tremulous and her eyes shinier than they should be but she remains just as defiant as when she has unfurled for the first time the red Oriflamme. In her hands, she presents him what he has started to wear of late.

A helmet. A helmet around which a gold band signals the status of his bearer. If it is not the war head gear used by the descendant of Charlemagne, who cares? It looks almost Frankish except somebody has engraved on the hard metal something which pretends to be a wolf.

\- _"My husband must not go out bare head. The duke of the Nordmanni must lead … in a proper fashion"_

 _\- "Protocol or not, all men die the same"_

A last great hug as gentle it can be because of the little warrior, a light kiss on her forehead and he leaves without turning back. This is how he wants to remember her if this is the last time he meets her in this life. A fierce shield maiden who will not break. Yet he has to shout as if to nobody in particular at he will see her or him later.

As he runs to the entrance of the bridge from the city, he hears Sinric falling into the cadence of his strides and he sees Roland ordering the great spears slings to shoot and shoot again. He has already forgotten that somewhere in the palace looking over the part of Paris where he stands now, at a window, there is a woman waiting for him. He has to forget about her, about her precious burden because he has to be strong in battle. Because he must not fear Death.

If today is his last one, if today is the day the Gods have earmarked as his so be it. He will show to Bjorn that being called bear does not make his nephew a berserker! Tonight there will be blood and both great feral creatures have started to get intoxicated by its smell.

How dare them! How dare his nephew to threaten his family! The leader of the pack sees blood all over and rallies his men. The Vikings… the enemy… his enemies are verging to enter the city and it will not be. No one will survive who tries and endanger his people. The males of the pack will fight to death to protect their families. Nobody! Nobody! When the little warrior is born, this will be the first lesson his father will teach him. Protect your family!

Helmet firmly on his head from which much shorter locks escape as he has now taken to follow the Frank fashion to cut his hair, his long axe in hand, the duke enters the savage melee.

On the other side, Bjorn and his men are attacking the doors of the small fort on both sides. The defenders and the servants fight back like demons, like the evil creatures they are who do not worship Odin. The Gods have cursed them as a red tide is about to engulf them.

God will save them. In this world or in the other. St Michael, the great archangel who leads the angelic legions is standing at their side locked in an invisible battle against the devils the heathens pray. At his side, the great kings of yore stand fierce like they did when they were but mortal creatures. Here is Clovis, first king of Frankia who accepted baptism to thank the God; if today his name is pronounced Louis he shows no umbrage of the change. Here is Charles, Pippin bastard son who raised the Cross against the Moors again and again. If Odin and Thor are strong just like the other inhabitants of Asgard, so are the Lords of Frankia who give just as much good as they get.

Down below, soldiers and warriors see nothing. All of them only see blood being sacrificed, blood being shed to save life. Blood covering all over. Blood dripping from swords and shields. Blood on spears, blades rejoicing in blood. Great axes drinking big gulps of the fluid of Life. War in Heaven, war on Midgard.

Two great warriors on each side of the bridge repeat mechanically the same dance of death; each of their blows picks up a new victim, each serving Odin satisfied by the North pirate yet deprived of the soul of the deserving follower of the Cross. Odin is never fully satiated as long as there will be warriors refusing to be sacrificed at his altars. This resistance of the Franks irks the All Father just as much that he cannot accept to be denied by the missionaries the many monasteries of Frankia send again and again, wave after wave, gentle apostles ready to be slaughtered in the Name of a Divine Father.

A Father who, like him, has had to witness the death of his beloved Son. The Divine symmetry stops here. Balder is prisoner of Loki's monstrous daughter unlike the Crucified son who has resurrected. Odin will never set his eye on his child whereas in Heaven Father and Son are but one and the same with the Holy Ghost. A celestial trinity which is mirrored in Asgard by the Norns, not by the Aesir.

Odin will crush the obstinate resistance of the capital of the Church's eldest daughter and Bjorn the young bear will slay his uncle without mercy!

Uncle and nephew know this is like a final chance to stop it here but will not surrender to the callings of reason. The traitor carries on betraying his family in Kattegat while the son of the Norse King persists in assaulting the land of his uncle. What Bjorn does not understand is why his uncle has followers?

Why it is that evil follows evil or is it that evil contaminates? Who started being a traitor? Rollo! Rollo is the primary cause of Floki's murderous rage! His uncle smitten by jealousy has never stopped plotting against his father. The son of the king remembers how the berserker had betrayed Horik with Borg to carry on betraying Borg for the earl of Kattegat. Rollo is duplicity himself: he is like Fenrir, the wolfish son of Loki. Biting the hand of who feeds him. Naturally inclined to treason, again and again Rollo follows the path of mischief. Seemingly allied to Haraldson, he plays the brother against who he has sworn fealty. Then he betrays the new earl for the Jarl. The jarl is his next victim as apparently he obeys the king. When Horik strikes, so does Rollo and Horik dies. No wonder why Odin has denied his uncle Valhalla again and again, Rollo is like Loki: unworthy! And his axe and his sword plunge hardily in the belly of the Franks and the few traitors who serve him. Look at him! But he does not see Rollo. In the scrum, all he sees is Franks. Sometimes, he thinks he recognizes a formerly friendly face but they look so different. Some even dare to wear a cross around their neck! Their haircut is different; the men who left Kattegat to stay behind have left it for ever. All Bjorn sees now are Franks and allies of Franks. Let them be all killed!

Yes, they must all perish. Soon Ragnar and the Shield Maiden will be there… along with Kalf. He did not like his step father; the new one is a bit better but he has a massive fault. Erlendur, son of Horik is as thick as thieves with him. As why has Ragnar spared this misbegotten son of a snake he is no clue! Erlendur, just as duplicitous as his late father and just as nasty. Torvi pays daily the price of being his prisoner wife. Soon Ragnar will be there and he must offer Paris to his father for his sake, for the sake of Athelstan's memory and his mysterious smile about treasures of infinity value and infinitely small worth.

Tonight's attack is his last chance. Like a predator, he has allowed his prey to grow unwary. Like a wolf, he has followed it as it was getting less suspicious, more intrepid. Less careful and now he strikes. He jumps on it and he tears it apart.

Outside he hears the men on the long ships covered in blackened cloth to try and break open the wood bridge, to break inside the gates to enter again Paris. Paris, he has never seen as when the first raid has succeeded to get these damned doors opened, he has been caring for his almost dying father. Rollo knows more about Paris than him. Is it why he has betrayed again? Is there some magic in Paris? If so he will torch it after the raid so never again such insulting city stands upright.

How dares it mock Kattegat and humble Hedeby! It puts apparently Egbert capital to shame. His mother has told him of the king of Wessex sumptuous Roman baths, his father's friends have mentioned rich churches. From what he has been told Saint Stephen cathedral is an obscenity in gold. Colourful window-panes as if wood planks and curtains were not enough. Silk rolls vomited in the streets, spices regurgitated in endless jars. Silver considered as the gold of the poor. These Franks are too rich, too satisfied with their bursting coffers. Time has come for them to share the wealth. These Christians, who wallow into insulting the Gods by worshiping a man without honour who died on a cross to mock Odin nine days plight. A man, who was unmanly enough to refuse to fight when he had been slapped on the cheek.

Bjorn Ragnarson will be known as the man who has humbled Frankia, who has torn the City of Marbles apart. When Ragnar comes, his king and father will be given the pleasure to only see ashes and burning ruins. Yes, he will and the men he slices off almost like a routine will never know why he smiled broadly when they held their last breath.

From the gates he is defending he hears the warriors outside trying to break into the bridge and his heart beats a maddening dance in his ears. If they get access to the bridge they will get access to the defiant fort which sits on the bank from there again and again they will bring men to try and force the doors open and then…and then…

There is a decision he has not yet taken; a cruel and terrible choice which is offered to him. Men will be sacrificed; good and honourable men. Better men than the savage men who killed Floki's ladders less than two summers ago. Men he is happy to call friends; men he must abandon to Bjorn and his enraged sea-wolves.

Has he hoped there was a choice as if the Gods would spare him the decision. Odin is thirsty; Odin is always thirsty! It is a bitter cup and he must drink all the poisonous content,

Slowly, he retreats and signals to Roland. As he does, he sees the guard almost flinching, biting tightly his lips yet raising his arm to order the ramparts the next course of action. Outside on the walls, suddenly a line of fire raises its head in the night. Outside behind the flames, the assailants can guess shadows, many more shadows than they thought the city contained of defenders. The aggressors see great bows rising with arrows of fire believing them aimed at the ships when they realize all the arrows fall on the bridge. Worse, the soldiers locked in the small fort pour burning oil on the bridge cutting it effectively from the mainland. Bjorn understands. Understands too late and he snarls like a bear deprived of his coming feast.

The inhabitants of the fort are abandoned to his anger while the bridge is willingly been destroyed. The Franks have no choice but fighting their way out to fall under the North blades or burn alive taking with them as many men of the lands of the Danes as they can. From the flood of flames falling on the head of Bjorn warriors, the answer is unmistakable. Death with honour, No prisoner taken, Winners and losers to be judged by the Holy Trinity. Lives willingly given to save more.

Lagertha's son enrages: there will be no more link with the mainland; Paris will survive in splendid isolation like the summit of a mountain surrounded by clouds is cut from the rest of the great body of stones. There is nothing he can do to stop the suicide of the small fort and he will be lucky if jumping in the Seine in the night he does not break a limb or his head as ships are invisible or about in the clarity brought by the burning bridge. It is now a mad rush for survival as the Vikings jump in the dark trying to avoid the wooden coffins which surround the bridge. As he swims back to the bank and he is surrounded by the noise of the stampede, all he sees through the falling planks of what was once the pride of Paris joiners is far, far inside the city… through the now open gates who mock him the giant shadow of a lone warrior and behind him something which could be a red banner.

The rain of arrows of fire like the hordes of the Fire Jotuns of Ragnarok does not stop until the attackers are pushed back to their wilderness. Once again, Bjorn will not enter Paris. Once again, he will not capture his uncle to offer him to Ragnar to be blood-eagled. Once again Paris stands undefeated.

When he turns back to the city, he does it ever so slowly. He does not want to but he has to. The gates which now lead to nothing by the river which flows below unmoved by the slaughter but a few moments ago close slowly. He takes a deep breath and he faces them.

The warriors who like him have decided to live in peace with the Franks, the soldiers of Paris who have lost their friends in the smouldering brazier that is finishing engulfing the front. These are men; men who know the price of battle. Who accept that the Gods are always thirsty for blood. He does not fear their eyes. Sinric's hair may be singed and Roland is livid; yet they do not balk at tonight stalemate. No, Rollo does not fear the men of Paris.

It is them all. All of the women of the city who do not speak. Whose breath is strained like a bow about to shoot. All these women: the mothers who will bury a son, the widow who is slowly realizing her loss, the child who is still looking for her father. They are here. Around her who has seen all, Once again. Who has not shied from watching over it. The eyes shine and slowly, ever … ever so slowly like a dam breaks when the winter snow melts… drop by drop, tear by tear the reality of what has happened sets in and a sound mounts in the night. The voice of the women of Paris weeping for their dead.

Yet because Life has been saved, the song is interspaced by the shrill shriek of delight of the young boy whose father has been spared, the wife whose husband is not the worst to wear… Life goes on but for how long?

Shivering – is it from the cold of the night or because really, she is exhausted to have stood up during the battle? = she waits for him to acknowledge her. Bending as in an aside, she speaks to Abbo if this is his name, custodian of the Oriflamme. As he approaches, he hears what she is ordering.

- _"I want the name of all the heroes of the Petit Chatelet recorded. I do not need their titles and status. I have no time for who was a slave, who was of noble birth. I want their names. Tomorrow, we shall bring the list to the recluses and they will pray for their souls. Nobody should forget the names of the heroes of tonight"_

The trembling smile she gives him tells him that fear must have run havoc in her heart tonight yet she has stood. Like she has done on the walls. She is his shield maiden. She is… Letting go of a barely audible shriek, she runs the last steps between them two and holds him tight against her. She has to surrender to the truth. She may never quite forgive him to have played a hand in her coerced wedding; he will be forever the man she loves.

Later tonight, he will wash away all the cuts he has received and she will stitch up the wounds that need it. Slowly they will walk together back to their bed. Her because of her pregnancy final days. Him because he is so exhausted he has to hold himself to the walls not to stagger. Together, they will lie in each other arms, certain not to sleep. Certain that having seen Hell from their own eyes, they will never be able to close their eyes. And together they will sleep in the wink of an eye. Because their real Hell is to be apart and they are not.

Good night, father, Sleep well, mother. Tomorrow is your final day. Alone.


	18. interlude 2

This is or rather was my first battle ever, I am afraid terribly stiff and short. Regardless, this is my homage that as a true Parisian I owe to the twelve heroes who died in the attack of the petit Chatelet. The attack with the ships is true though in day time and the fire also. A raging inferno which took 12 lives. Today near Notre-Dame, there is a marble plaque on a street wall marking still where and when it happened.

Next chapter has been sort of triggered by a review. Good thing, as I have already written it 3 times in the last year and always the same. It went on tumblr, IMdB… It may not be the beginning you were looking; still do remember there is always a beginning however modest.

Thanks for the reviews and you who read without a single feedback, please, please tell me if you like it, do not like it and why. I do not mind the negative as long as it teaches something to allow me to improve!

Now. Where are we? Knackered Rollo, miffed Bjorn. Where is Ragnar? Will Charles play the Carolingian version of the 7th of the US cavalry to save the day…?

And a last note on the idiotic spoiler websites which suggest Ragnar and Egbert could become allies: morons! I should write uneducated ignorantissimi morons. Before the Plantagenets, England and France had a rather good relationship. The two countries exchanged numerous queens; a sign in these days of a good political climate. Adding to my frustration the fact totally out of character of Ragnar totally erasing from his memory the massacre of his farmers' colony!

Rollo will be happy with Gisla! Yes, Mr Hirst, they are my favourite couple. Somebody needs to stand for the princess and her bear!


	19. Part 3 Chapter 4

One is not born a berserker. One becomes.

 _\- "I am sorry, little brother. It is him or I and I will not be called a parricide. The old bugger is doing my head him! As for our mother… how can she stand him?… beats me!"_

Ragnar sighs. His brother, his big brother is going to leave. Is going to go to his first raid sent away not by their father but by a stranger. And it should be right the two boys discuss what weapon is going to be his favourite and he should help him wax his shield, get his spear sharp…. He should be doing all these things a young brother does. Such as acknowledging he is green with envy at Rollo sailing away! He should but he does not; he cannot do all these things. Because Rollo is leaving for good. Never to return. In a few weeks, Rollo-s family will be absent on the pier

It has been a slap too much, a slur too much about their mother. A veiled suspicion raised too many times at his parentage. Rollo who is his father's spitting image and almost just as tall despite counting barely fourteen springs hates his sire with relish; Ragnar says nothing. Not that he approves the insults which rain every day over their mother. Simply he deals with them differently such as by turning a deaf ear to them. By going missing, running into the woods to Floki's homestead. There he finds a father or almost at his liking. Old Sven's ramshackle house is like home while Floki is his second brother. Both boys have grown, one could say joined at the hip, Ragnar's mother raising as her own the orphaned boy while Sven was dealing with his grief the way men do when they choose to drink it over yet not get drunk. Sven is a joiner who has a dream, who wants to become a ship builder. Days on, days out, he tries and tries again to find the right plank, the perfect tree and find the secret of shipbuilding. With sometimes astonishing results which make the two boys laugh their hearts out. Old Sven does not mind; he takes the boys in the forest with them: this way he knows they cannot come to grief. While he searches and listens to the song of the tree trunks, the boys hunt for berries shrieking their delight at pretending to be great warriors shouting outlandish claims about their might. Sven is just as happy as the boys are. It does not replace his wife taken by one of these evil plagues but it is nice to see happy faces around and it is good for his Floki. Floki who misses his mother so much…

Ragnar will get next year his own arm ring. An arm ring just like his brother! He is ready for it having trained along his sibling. Much to Rollo's disgust, he has managed to convince their parents to shave the back of his head leaving just a plait at its top: a very small plait. A weasel tail mocks Rollo. When he calls him that, as it is followed by a brotherly rub on the top of his head, Ragnar sees red. Alas his legs are too short against the long strides his brother puts between them distancing his younger brother apart.

Ragnar smiles; would smile but will not. Cannot because Rollo will anymore call him names if he leaves.

 _\- "You could come with us!"_

 _\- "Yes, you could come at Uncle's farm"_

Two other boys join the conversation. Torstein who is Ragnar's Heimdall has taken to live with his maternal uncle after his parents have died taken away by the very same plague which has made Floki an orphan. Arne agrees loudly which is logical considering that he will join Rollo when the next raid comes. Both boys are old enough, trained enough and they are the best friends in the world since they have discovered a common liking in the versification of skaldic poetry. Something which makes all of them laughing maniacally while Rollo and Arne pretend to be well above these pestering kids retreating to a dignified silence more suitable – so they think – to their advanced years. Eric who is really the oldest and ready to get married calls it sulking which naturally gets the two teenagers angry.

Why cannot it stay like this? Why does Rollo take it personally? Why can't he be like him pretending to be deaf rather to admit to be wounded?

It remains that it is a good thing the two other boys were here tonight otherwise he would have been minus a father or a brother. As usual, it has started by Father making a comment about Mother Porridge. Not sweet enough or too sweet unless it is too salty… Mother has bent her head in shame while all the boys have looked down as if they were trying to find some gold ore in it. All the boys have praised the meal trying to soothe the grumpy man always between two beakers of a bitter beer. All the boys but one as this time Rollo has stand up to him praising his mother cooking skills.

Naturally this display of insolence has woken up the constant irate streak of their old man. Who in turn has challenged his eldest child as who was the master of the household and this time Rollo has replied that the farm belongs to their mother through her father. That the seasoned warrior has brought nothing to the farm drinking its meagre benefits away when he is not sharing them with the local whore.

An old man standing in front of a young stallion, not anymore a colt. The young boys have looked down searching deeper in the warm oats looking this time for an exit in it while their reddened cheeks betrayed that they know what the word means. Their mother has gasped as it is the first time that somebody actually stands for her; that somebody is challenging his authority on her behalf while wishing he would not do so. She knows how it will end up: he will beat her as he does sometimes when the wine hits too hard on his head.

Ragnar likes his father when he is not drunk, when he tells him, tells them of tales of yore, of old raids when his leg was good. The man who used to be a wanderer, who was knows as a great warrior tells of Odin, their ancestor. But Rollo shrugs it off.

- _"Odin! The All Father if you please as if this ever-thirsty old bag of winds was a fit son of the King of Asgard?"_

If Ragnar likes his old man when he is sober, Rollo hates him, drunk or not. The eldest son has seen too many brawls, taking away his little brother half asleep with him into the barn while their parents were having proper rows again and again. Rollo has walked out from the house too many times taking away Ragnar to pick up eggs in the barn, to pick up mushrooms in the forest with Floki pretending not to hear the cries of their mother when her husband was having the last word by a proper lashing of his wife. Rollo has gone to the river too much to bring back fresh water along healing herbs to clean the wounds on her back to have any affection left for him. Ragnar has been spared of the worst; Rollo has seen it all.

And now, he cannot stand it anymore. Now taller than his father and he has not yet finished growing, a dark shadow over the upper lip and a proper stubble on the cheeks, he looks a man. And he will raid. Nobody will stop him from raiding as in Kattegat everybody knows about what happens in the farm by the beach. Eric's parents know for they have more than once allowed Rollo to sleep over at their home. Old Sven does, like Torstein uncle. The old Earl knows, along his stuffy if courageous son who probably knows!

And it humiliates him. It shames them both.

Mother for letting him have his way and her two boys who have to live in this hell of a home since … ever. As for him, for the man who is their father. The man Rollo is calling stepfather for some reason Ragnar does not understand, it drives him mad.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a young berserker who was courting a farmer's daughter. There ends the happy story.

Rollo has stand up with his knife out of his sheath ready to jump on his maker; the boys in accord have prevented the worse. The cause of this row is now stumbling away to the village to 'meet people who have the good taste of respecting him' while Mother is sniffing tears away in the kitchen. Once again deaf to Rollo's pleas to divorce the drunkard.

Tonight, Rollo has finally got the message one cannot fight some battles for the sake of an unwilling woman. If Mother wants to stay with him, fine. Rollo will leave!

From now on, Rollo has no father. Albeit he has a brother and somewhere a mother.

 _\- "Come with us. The farm is large. You won't sleep in the common room. We have a corner, a big corner just for ourselves. Come! We shall train all together. We shall be like the hand of Tyr. Nobody will be able to defeat us!"_

How often has Ragnar heard this offer being declined? He has lost count of it; it does not matter how many times Rollo has replied Thanks but no thanks This time Rollo has said yes. This time Rollo has packed his very few personal belongings leaving behind his wooden sword as if it was going to bite him. Anything coming from his father he has carefully discarded. Ragnar says nothing knowing that whatever words he will start to utter will be followed by a flood of tears. Rollo, please don't go!

A last hug alone with Mother as Ragnar has had the tactfulness to leave her alone with him. From now on she will see him only at his friends' farm or when she comes to the market to sell what she can as certainly wealth will not enter the farm with Father at the helm.

 _\- "I shall come back, little one. I swear I shall come back and I will see how grown you are so you can come raid with me"_

Winter has come and Spring too. The earl, who is growing thin has given the responsibility to his son to lead the raid, waves them goodbye. In one of the long ships, Rollo and Arne are rowing. Rollo who is so tall, who has started to put on some muscle on his large if rather skinny shoulders is leaving and Ragnar… his little brother is standing on the quay alone. Father has only one son, these days. Father says that any boy who raises his hand against his father is unworthy to be a son born from his loins. When father is between two cups, he adds no surprise here which leaves Ragnar clueless. Ragnar is alone, looks alone but he is not.

Hidden in the shadows, there is Mother who dares not show her face on the pier but watches her eldest disappear as if swallowed by the Sea. Ragnar hates people who are not able to drink with caution. If father was able to do so, Rollo would be here. Would not be here. Rollo would still be rowing but Ragnar would not be alone. Father and Mother would be waving their goodbyes away to the ship… No, he is not alone. There are other people on the quay. Adults who start going about their business; who have not time for a boy who has lost the real strong anchor of his young life.

 _\- "Come with us, young Ragnar. I have an idea about a ship and I need more hands than my stupid Floki owns"_

Floki reddens because it is him who has whispered to his father the idea. He reddens not because his father is ashamed of him or mocks him; rather it is the opposite around. The hand who tousles his curls is affectionate.

- _"I have not told him… I should!"_

 _\- There are things best to keep close to one's heart, Ragnar. Especially the ones which hurt who says it and who hears them"_

Floki is wiser than his years say. Then the joiner's son makes a face and both boys are thrown into whoops as Ragnar could swear Floki has made the very same face - supposedly noble yet looking a lot like a pout – made by the son of the Old Earl. Following old Sven who has finished a quick chat with his mother, Ragnar and Floki start running and shouting like boys do. On the quay, now really alone Erik's young bride looks at the empty horizon. Forlorn, fearful but proud. But hopeful.

The boys' voices have turned hoarse from all the shouting since they have seen the ships coming back from the raid. It is who will be first on the quay. Torstein runs fast but it is Ragnar who has the best stamina. Floki does not mind being the last because he knows that the group is not complete until he comes. The three youths pant now like anxious puppies pushed aside by the grown-ups who smile at the kids. They were like them at the same age. Cubs almost old enough to raid yet still deemed too young to leave Kattegat. Next year is a different saga. Next year, it will be their turn. This year will be the last one when they are the ones asking questions.

Erik's wife whose belly has enlarged shrieks of delight as she has spotted a familiar frame and Torstein's uncle has gasped to breathe at a more settled yet still anxious pace because he sees that Arne his disembarking with an eye covered by bloodied bandages.

The son of the earl questions his wife, who holds his new-born son while the oldest holds a wooden sword, and runs to the Great Hall. His father is dying; fighting against a sure seat in Valhalla to hold just this one last time his son in his arms. His raid companions have been told if… when and not if it happens and it will happen, he wants to be known henceforth as Haraldson. As to give his father an extra lease in Midgard. Stuffy or not, the young man is a good son.

Ragnar sees nothing; sees only one thing. Last but not the least, Rollo walks on the quay. Taller than when he left with just a cut on his right arm and the two brothers run to each other: they have so much to tell to each other. The Good which cannot wait; the Bad which cannot be hidden long.

- _"You come with me. Tomorrow, you will return at the farm. How is Mother? I hope I shall get something pretty out of my share for her"_

He speaks loudly for all to hear promising later to tell Ragnar he has something; something he has snatched. Something which will not enter the great hall to be weighted and distributed by the earl. Young or old, does not matter. There is always an earl. And… and Haraldson is a fairly decent chap.

Yes, he has something for mother. A little something of little value but something nice. A short length of a silk ribbon she can sew on her best dress to make it look better.

 _\- "How is Mother?"_

His little brother is finally growing up though he will never catch him up. He takes too much after his mother side while the young warrior is – much to his anger – more and more like two peas in a pod with their father.

Ragnar does not reply. There are things one does not say; grown-ups swallow these things up a few times before telling them. They do not blurt out things which get one's chest tight and tears pressing against your eyes.

\- _"Mother? Mother… mother… has left."_

 _\- "Finally she has listened to reason. I'm glad. Now we all can be together. A happy family. Not that I shall stay long at the new farm."_

Rollo has acquired something else during the raid: he has now a roving eye for girls and he has noticed a pretty blonde about his age on the market place they are crossing now to retrieve in a nearby alley the farm cart. A push with the elbow signals to his little brother who has caught his interest.

 _\- "What's her name? Is she Loopy's daughter?"_

The adult who has been given the insulting nickname is a mountain of a man whose muscular arms can lift a tree trunk above his head should he wish so. A man whose mind wanders somewhere in the Lands of the East. The berserker, because one day, he was a berserker is now the sweetest of souls who must be reminded by wife and daughter of what he must do more than is necessary. A man who cannot bear noise putting his large paws over his ears when people start to talk louder. A gentle if lost soul as his head has received one injury too much during his last raid. He has survived and wears his long hair in plaits. He is still strong but he never fights. He keeps fit chopping trees down when Old Sven asks him. He hunts and seldom speaks happy to be alive to enjoy his family when his wound let him. Some days though he growls like a beast , huddled up in a corner, whinging about the pain in the head unless he starts running into the forest totally naked while his harassed spouse runs behind him to prevent him from getting lost. Ragnar feels sorry for the women. Rollo has only eyes for the girl.

 _\- "Lagertha has turned quite pretty. But I prefer Helga!"_

 _\- "Floki, your brain is turning into jelly. Helga is pretty. It remains she is still a girl and girls do not train with boys"_

Rollo does not interfere when the youths start bickering at each other. He knows for a sure thing that the berserker has started to train his only child to battle. Loopy may have no young bear cub to follow his steps; his little she-bear can become a shield maid. Loopy can be quite sane when he has no headache.

\- _"Lagertha. Yes! Yes, I had forgotten!...How is Mother? We must leave quick before he shows his face"_

Ragnar hesitates wishing all of a sudden Rollo had not come back. Hoping against hope he would be spared to be the one to wound Rollo. He starts but all he does manage are little coughs, ahems and errs which mean nothing. Which mean too much. All he succeeds in is to look very much like a boy not yet fourteen with too much responsibility on his back. Torstein uncle says nothing; in life, there are events nobody can escape such as personal tragedies. The people you love cannot prevent you from being wounded leaving big gaps in your chest like a blood eagle and nobody, nobody can stop the torture. Nobody can see the invisible executioner because it is your own love for this other person which is killing you exquisitely cut after cut.

Torstein gets lost in the contemplation of a fallen pail, Floki for once says nothing. Arne remembers when it was his turn. The adult gets ready to take the matter in his own hands; Ragnar is still a child and Rollo is but the warrior of one raid only.

Ragnar is telling him Father is dead, Because... because surelt it cannot be...

- _"When did he die? Because he died. Isn't it? He is dead"_

Ragnar says nothing. He tries so hard but all he manages to do is to dissolve like spring snow one tear drop at a time. Swallowing hard, he tries to say it and the adult coughs as to show he will now take charge when the venomous stare of the boy stops him. Torstein uncle coughs a bit more, just a pretence to give Ragnar the push to say it.

- _" It… it happened two weeks after… they were washing the spring wash… it was sudden… it was quick… all the wash turned red … like the women had rinsed it in pure blood…"_

A quick look at Rollo shows he makes sense of this disjointed tale. The teenager will not cry even if his eyes are getting shiny. He starts breathing hard pressing his arms against a wall, back straught turned to the boys and their temporary guardian. And he snaps. Just one blow ad the plank breaks in two. This youth is strong; when he finishes growing he will be as dangerous as the bears which winter coming prowl near the village.

Torstein uncle catches Ragnar's eyes leading him to complete the tale; nodding approbation, lifting a hand as if to stop the halted words. Rollo must know it all and it can come only from his brother. This is family; this is what a brother must do.

 _\- "Remember Mother's cough; this winter cough which was lingering. She has started coughing blood a few days after you sailed away. It could have lasted long but …. as the spring wash was in full swing, she must have ruptured an artery. The other women … they have called for help … there was nothing to do"_

While he was busy rowing looking for his very first raid, getting ready to prove his worth and planning on what tattoo he would wear for his final coming of age, his mother was being cremated. Mother will never caress the silk ribbon he has hidden deep in his pocket. Mother will never admire the riches he has conquered with his axe. All he has won has been in vain.

The man at the farm has said nothing. These days he does not drink or he drinks himself to oblivion. Father says nothing, getting into an immobile trance or entering into a frenzy looking in every box and chest on the farm. Looking for what, searching what, seeing what, Ragnar does not know. Rollo does not care about his old man; all Father does is to pace like a wolf in a cage. Ragnar shivers because he knows what follows… what would follow if Torstein uncle does not act now. The older man puts gently a kind hand on the young man's shoulder to find himself pushed backword as the wolf enters into a rage looking to dig his fangs in his intended prey.

Rollo runs,

And he runs fast, he runs so fast. He does not hear Ragnar anguished cry to stop. He does not hear the other voices of the boys who know what will happen because they would do exactly the same if they were in his circumstances. He runs sword beating his thigh, axe in his hand. Mother will not protect him this time. Mother… All is so muddied in his head. His father, mother, the other man. Mother dead and all this blood…

Ragnar runs just as fast as his shorter legs allow followed by Floki and Torstein who have to follow because surely it would be weak of them not to help their friend. Left behind, Arne and the uncle decide of the wisest course: should they inform the earl of the impending murder or remain silent praying the Gods they spare Rollo of the consequence of his anger, not that they blame him.

When at long last out of breath, Ragnar reaches the farm, he is met by an ominous silence. He is met by the vision of Rollo sitting on the beach. Face hidden between his knees, rocking slowly as if he was trying to rock himself to sleep. The silence is unbearable; a crow flies to rest on the open door of the barn and Ragnar fears to discover what is inside. Better walk and sit by Rollo.

As he kneels by him, he sees the axe and can't help feeling a bit better. There is no blood on its blade. The sword is in its sheath and Rollo's hands are not covered by red specks… All is normal but for the large nail which is plunged into Rollo's hand, probably with the help of this hammer, fallen at Rollo feet. Why is it then Rollo carries on the same rhythmic movement back and forth like… like he was a baby in his mother's arms? Why has Rollo injured himself?

Behind him, he hears the panting sounds made by his friends followed a bit later by Arne and the heavier steps of the adult. The two men enter the barn unlike him who does not want to see what is inside. Of what the two men whisper he has no idea; what he knows is that Arne has signalled the boys to not go here with them but to stay near the chicken coop. All he hears are grunts and weird noises like the two older men were struggling to do something difficult, like they were moving something heavy and cumbersome.

 _\- "Rollo… I will say what I have seen and Arne will say the same thing. Don't you boys worry! If… if you agree, I will take him to my farm… as to get him ready for… for cremation. I know you two have plenty of things to say to each other. Tomorrow, next day, when you are ready, come at my farm. .."_

Only silence answers; it remains Rollo has stopped rocking. And his brother is sitting like him looking out at nothing to see but feeling comfortable in this sea of noiselessness.

Later much later, Rollo gets up, He shakes his head like a dog out of water, stretches his back and looks at his sibling like he had just noticed him, Opening his arms, he hugs finally Ragnar.

 _\- " I am here, little brother. I am back. You did not think I was going to leave you"_

Ragnar does not ask what was in the barn, He knows now it is just Rollo and him. He knows Rollo has done no wrong and that much means a lot of things. A lot of good things.

That night as the brothers finish their supper, Ragnar dares ever so slyly to ask him the question he wanted to ask him. The question which was ludicrous to ask when all was about Mother being dead while Father was still around; the question which matters when you are a teenager not yet fourteen and your brother walks like a man.

\- _" Have you… I mean … have you?"_

He feels ridiculous and his ears get red. Which is humiliating. After all, he has been raised in a farm and animals are not shy creatures like us, mortals of Midgard. Rollo gives him a long sly look. And starts to smile: a long feral smile.

- _"Have I… done what, little weasel? Have I?"_

And he laughs. And Ragnar joins in and both boys are now happy. Happy and sad because of Mother but they are together. And this much gives them joy.

 _\- "Have I … fucked?"_

They laugh out loud more. This is probably not the mirror wake which is playing in Kattegat Great Hall where the old Earl has been succeeded by young Earl Haraldson but it does not matter. Both boys know that in each other heart they grieve their sweet mother. Ragnar has less to forgive to his father than Rollo and Rollo can live without a father. Suddenly the air grows cold around him. Sex is great except that babies have a knack to follow it.

- _"Yes but I warn you: you are not going to become an uncle any time soon. No children for Rollo._ "

There are ways to avoid fatherhood; ways which do not imply deserting the poor sod with whom you have played the two-backs beast. Tonight, both brothers go to sleep without fuss. Today has been a very long day. Still Ragnar wants to say something more.

- _"Mother's amulet. You remember the one I am talking about. Thor's hammer? I have it. She wanted you to have it. She said. Give it to your brother. It comes from Father. From his father as she said. Take it."_

And he pulls the necklace and amulet out of his belt pouch. Rollo snatches it from his hand; why suddenly the young warrior is happy he does not pretend to understand. He just knows it is good to see Rollo smiling; and it is this thought which ends up his day.

It takes longer for Rollo to fall asleep. Today has been in a way another, more perilous battle. Mother is dead and the man who has accepted him as his son is dead too.

His step father is dead; Ragnar must not know. Must never know. Mother must remain as she was: perfect. In the dark, he feels the hammer with his finger. Father, my real sire, who were you? It does not matter. Next raid will come soon and this time he will have Ragnar to watch for his back. Who needs to become a father when you have a young brother to care for?

 _\- "Not a father! No children…no children!"_

The bed is cold when his hand reaches for her to meet emptiness. This absence wakes him fully. Where is his wife? How long has he overslept, exhausted by last night battle? What a night! What a nightmare! Dreaming about things of his past. Things he has buried deep in his memory. What was he muttering when he woke up? Was he speaking Norse?

He hears pacing; pulls the curtain which separates their bed from the rest of the room to discover that Gisla is panting holding her large belly.

With a weak smile, she greets him by the very words he fears to hear. The Gods are surprise to this.

 _\- "Baby is coming!"_


	20. Part 3 Chapter 5

This is the ideal time, the perfect place to deliver a child… not! They are cut from the mainland which is teeming with warriors set to slaughter them, left alone in a fortress where food is rationed at the mercy of mortal epidemics. The dead have been denied burials to be offered pyres so the cadavers are not picked up by carrions. The rats have been denied rotting flesh to gnaw on while the priests have collected the ashes storing them in jars, writing down names when they could. This is the place where the little warrior will gasp in his first breath!

Truth obliges his father to amend the dire picture by adding that the child will have his own room in his grandfather's palace. That said room has been the playroom of his uncle. Imperial uncle as Rollo does not remember his or rather Ragnar and his corner being decorated by frescoes showing the mighty deeds of this ancestral king along the noble deeds of that long gone prince. In the room, stands a cradle… and a chair, a couch should the new born wish to entertain his guests in the old Roman fashion!

Chests full of toys played with by older kings with their royal and imperial siblings. Wooden swords, shields. Diminutive helmets with delicate chain mail. Real armours gilded by artists made for children who in turn would rule over a realm which will grow into an empire. The little warrior will lack of nothing.

In a recess, should the God Christ decide to humble the duke's household, other chests are standing in case a girl would show up. Again, this little shield maid will not be found lacking. Chests of precious silks, gold embroidery on ribbons, soft furs and boxes of dolls await her.

The child will not suffer from want; the child may suffer from one thing though. A proper midwife!

The nuns may be virtuous but the experience of the dedicated virgins in midwifery is inexistent. On the other hand, the whores have plenty of experience in the true facts of life. Too much experience and not the one needed. Their skills lay in avoiding pregnancies and much to their shame having to whisper in his ears taking preventative measures against enlarging bellies. They have delivered the odd baby to abandon it at the door of churches or nunneries. Rollo shudders at imagining the claws of their matron touching his wife.

Men are not allowed to come anywhere near a lady in delicate condition. The doctor can speak, ask questions and get answers. He is forbidden by protocol and customs to do more than hold the hand of the future mother, this in the presence of her husband! The only fit midwife in this small sample of humanity which counts the survivors of the siege is the doctor's mother. A lady who has attended to the birth of many exalted persons. A lady now decrepit whose mind wanders too much in the past to be relied on to deliver safely Gisla.

Not that there is much need of a wise-woman as Franks call a midwife in most of times. Most of times all goes fine… all goes well he has been told. What good does it make to know through Bjorn little Siggy was born quite an extraordinary way or that Ivar difference is unrelated to his birth? Miscarriages happen as Lagertha has discovered. His Siggy has become three times a mother without fuss if he believes her own words. Except for Ivar, Aslaug has been quite fine. His experience is limited to hearsay and words shared by men as nobody but the father is allowed to enter the birthing chamber. What is he supposed to do? Stand at her side? Stand at the door which will free the little warrior? Or should he stand in between her and him?

Should he stand or sit? If he sits by her side, what do they expect him to do? To say? What if it goes wrong? What if he is asked the question men fear: mother or child? What if the worse comes and there is no…? All these questions he has refused to ask during all these months, questions which now rush and overcome him as if tired of having had to insist during the long months of the pregnancy?

What if it goes wrong? If only there was in the adjoining room somebody who speaks his language. As he scans the room all he can see are faces he does not know whispering words he can barely make out at best and his wife whose harassed eyes tell too much of a fear he feels just as much as her. Flushed, looking so young she could be Gydda's twin sister, the princess is pulling the bed covers up her neck while a swarm of women, young, old, well-mannered and coarse turn around the bed each giving advice or pleading ignorance while a woman who looks as old as the Norns is sitting at the end of the bed: it is so wrong. To make matters worse, through the wooden door, he hears the doctor asking question, followed by Sinric asking the same question but in Norse. A game is then played where a Nun whispers at the princess' ears the same question. An answer is muttered back to the veiled woman who has to trot to the door, knock on it, walk outside, whisper to the doctor the answer and leave back to the bed chamber! In turn the physician starts looking at the thick books and other manuscripts he has brought with him. After consulting the learned writings, the man of science as Franks call it, walks to the door to out another question and the same routine starts afresh. This drives him insane.

What drives him angry, Is that while everybody is interested by his wife and he accepts this, nobody pays attention to him. He is the father for Freyr's sake. He is not a drone who is going to give away his little warrior to the Emperor. Job done! A male heir for the Empire; good bye. This new life is his child; not the emperor's heir. Then their eyes lock and he rushes to her side while he feels her fevered hand to seize his and it grasps it as a vicious grip with a strength he was not expecting. Eyes wide open, panting, she holds him until the contraction ebbs away. Their eyes never stop locking as slowly she draws on her face a pitiful smile.

- _"I apologize"_

 _\- "You fight well… err… the women of my people, they… they shout. If you want to yell and curse, you can"_

A wan smile is all he gets. Imperial ladies are not allowed to show they are mere mortals. On Midgard, what is permitted to an earl's wife in Kattegat is denied in Paris. His young wife suffers in silence, eyes bulging, and hands tense on the bed sheets because protocol says so…

If protocol was a live person, he would throw him out of the window now. He would send him to Bjorn's camp with his compliments to be tortured and killed. He would gladly love to do this. All he can do is hold her hand with a nervous smile. What is happening to his nerves? He has never been so fidgety in his life. All these women around get him giddy.

That's it! There are too many people in this room! One cannot breathe.

- _"You know what? I shall get rid of some of these ladies?"_

It is bad enough that all too soon priests will enter the room kneeling on the floor, singing hymns he will not try to understand, relegated behind the curtains; for the moment something must give or he is going to act really crazy because he will turn really mad. Some women must leave: he is tired of the nuns and this air of sufferings they present when the doctor asks intimate questions and he hates the giggles of the light skirts who know all too well what it means.

\- _"Out you go. All of you. Only the wives of my people, my Nordmanni will stay. They are virtuous enough for their husbands and proper enough to serve their duchess. And some have experienced birth. Just what we want."_

The good ladies and the good times girls leave in relative good order. The nuns because a nod of the princess has released them from their duty; the brothel flock because they can resume their favourite activity. The wives of the North Men understand his wife, understand him also. If only the midwife was one of them!

To be able to breathe in a less stuffy atmosphere must have eased the process. The contractions are slowing down in pace, reducing in intensity until all stops. Gisla eyes flutter as a restful nap calls her. The room is now empty but for the couple.

His hand rests on the large bulge giving an odd shape to the bed. The little warrior is asleep in some wicker basket like in Kattegat floating on the fjord almost still waters. With a grim smile, he kisses Gisla forehead and walks to the window. Bjorn could have attacked… but how? Now an island, Paris is impregnable. His long ships are easily detected and Franks do not give miserly their burning oil. As for the ballistae. Stones projectiles generously fall on decks and humans alike. Bjorn has the countryside yet is not one step closer to get in. Unlike Ragnar, he cannot bring himself to declare a sudden calling urge to become a Christian. Franks may be gullible; it remains they have a good memory.

As the night sets, Rollo's tired eyes count as usual the number of ships dancing on the river. Counts and recounts. The sums do not add up. Somehow, there are more ships. How? How? Unless under the pretence to ease the boredom of his warriors, he has sailed enough ships on the Seine up and down stream. Hiding fresh troops. Who is there? Who?

The raven which flies on the banner is his answer. Ragnar is back.

Quickly leaving their bedroom, he gets to the walls to be met by a worried Roland.

- _"There are more ships coming, my lord. They try and take a chance as dusk sets in. It is more difficult for our soldiers to see. Fresh troops mean they will attack soon. Maybe tomorrow"_

What can he say?

 _\- "This is Ragnar Lothbrok. You have never seen a man like him. Beware of his wrath_ "

What should he say?

 _\- "The princess waits for her father. Once the emperor is back, then our fresh troops will show to these North Men, NordManni and Franks can still teach them a lesson or two!"_

All he may say is that tomorrow will be another he says, he keeps it for the ears of the child to come

\- **"Little warrior, sail safe. The bones of destiny are rolling; the stones which grind the bones of men have already had their course fated by the Gods. Little warrior, you and I are all alone in this battle. I cannot help you and you cannot watch my back. Who is going to save us? Is your mother's God mighty enough to fight off Odin without weapons as the priests tell me? Is God Christ magic so strong it can defeat the Lords of Valhalla?"**

What at the end of a long silence he mutters in Norse sounds a lot like swearing to Roland; the Frank soldier approves. He could swear with gusto himself. Bjorn is bad enough; why is it that criminals always come back to the place where the original crime was committed?

In his floating cot, the child smiles like he knows something the giants do not know. As if Gods share with little warriors their plans on the fate of the men of Midgard.


	21. Part 3 Chapter 6 Ragnarok

**Ragnarok**

The end of Time. Of Times. The end of his time. After it, nobody knows. Some say new Gods will arise, set peace in a new world and all will start again. Like a peaceful sea in the morning which has seen Thor hammer smashing the waves in his eternal fight with the World Serpent striking it with great flashes of lightning. Next morning comes and all is quiet. A next morning, he will not see. Because today is Ragnarok.

Today is his day of reckoning. The day to clear his debts. To stand and be accounted. Traitors must give answers to these who trusted in them. Betrayal has to be explained. Today, he stands in front of his judges. His judge. His brother.

Ragnarok… it certainly feels like it for Rollo and his NordManni. For Roland and his men, it feels like a fortress surrounded by waves after waves of enemies. Gisla who he has held in his arms but a moment ago has told him to fight like the warrior who assailed her walls less than two years ago. Be a wild beast, free the crazy bear. Let Rollo the Wolf lead his pack to victory. Not one word has passed her lips about her own battle. His she-wolf has a courageous soul. But what of the child?

With Ragnar's arrival, Bjorn has now enough men to launch the worst attack ever against the city of Paris. With all these ships, he has trapped him on all sides. All to be assaulted by formidable warriors again and again until there are no defender left …

After… after… all he can hope for is that the faint streak of compassion which has permitted the survival of Torvi and her son will be revived for Gisla and their child. The son he will never hold in his arms never named. Never claimed as his own.

He will never become a father. Odin, you always win at the end. Curse you!

Once again Roland's ears meet with the finest foulest insults of Kattegat and once again, the Frank smiles.

\- _"I have no clue as what you say, my Lord Duke. On a hint, I'd say I agree with you. Fucking bastards, these North Men!"_

Bastards… Yes, like him. From ever he has known that despite looking like him, his father has suspected foul play about his birth. As why, he does not know. Old Sven told him that something happened in Uppsala. Like his father being seen in two different places at the same time.

\- _"We were all drunk. Way too many mushrooms. Nasty stuff, mushrooms. Now trees, trees do not lie, young Rollo"_

His mother welcomed her husband, while her spouse was busy getting smashed with Sven and the earl and… Enough men to vouch for his presence with enough men including the Old Seer to bear witness same husband was pulling his wife to the complicit shadows.

The men were possibly drunk unless it was the other group. Whoever is right has not been able to convince despite the evidence of a child being the spitting resemblance of his father that this man was this sire.

His parents have put up with him, his mother kind but weak. His father doubtful, way too many times resentful. He has grown under this constant distrust, this vigilant hate. Disregarded always. It has been Ragnar who has inherited the farm. And it has been Ragnar Lagertha has preferred over the wolf warrior. This is when he has knocked on the door of her father. To be trained as a bear warrior. Ragnar had his ramshackle farm to put into order; Lagertha would be a shield maid. None of the couple could become a berserker.

His rage, his anger, his abysmal pain at being rejected again and again by a couple of lovers who had somewhat lost interest in him, he has put into training. Lagertha's father was not loopy; he had simply quieted down. The training was unforgiving. Brash, ruthless. Allowing no mistake. When he was introduced to the brotherhood of the Caves Lords, his body was covered in deep scars but this time he was the chosen one. He was acknowledged, recognized. He had come into his own. He has met with his people. Raid after raid, battle wound after more battle wound, a new tattoo dancing on his skin, he has outgrown the skin of a dissatisfied youth. All these marks on his body are the live proof that the bear is a great warrior. Maybe the greatest warrior of all like Thor his personal favourite God.

Dare enter the cave of the sleeping bear, Ragnar. Please, come in. You will discover that I am been ready for you since a long time. Come Odin. I am free from your spell. Fenrir is free. Ragnarok has come; time has come for you to feel the bite of my fangs. I am tired of your lies, your mind games. I trusted you brother. And all you have done is charge me with more fetters. It was not enough for you to punish me for having dared to harbour ambitions about bettering myself. I am not a dog fed from the left overs of the banquet table. All I wanted was a bit of sun for me. And a family of my own. For four horrible years, I drank myself to death rather than feel the shame of my betrayal. Death would have been kinder. I had failed you, I had failed Siggy. Then you play more games this time with Borg. Poor sod, he never stood a chance against Horik and you. What sort of brother are you to pimp my wife with Horik. King or not, there are things brothers do not do. All these secret conversations with Athelstan, never asking for my opinion or letting me feel like a fool. More than once, way too many times, you have mocked me. It stops here.

Ragnarok. Come, little brother, come. Kill me. But know I will be like the great wolf closing my jaws on you. If Bjorn has to kill me in turn; so be it. A son's duty is to avenge his father. I was a miserable son; it is only fair a good one end my unworthy existence. Bjorn is a good man. He will spare my Gisla. And if he does not, so be it. We shall be reunited in Valhalla… or in this place of hers. What has been united by her God cannot be broken. Ragnar, you get it Every which way, I shall win…

Roland watches how the duke breathes. How he gets into the mood for battle. Already he has – unwisely, so the Frank soldier thinks – removed his gilded helmet, freeing his rather too long for his taste chestnut hair, but he is about to proceed and remove his chain mail.

 _\- "Armours are useful, my Lord. Since your men had accepted to wear metal armours, we have suffered less casual…"_

The wild look he gets stops him on his tracks. Only fools start arguing with a berserker when he gets ready for battle.

The soldier is silent. Good. Deep breathes. In, out. In, out. Teeth clenching, rubbing fangs, claws ready to scratch. The great wolf has no bones to break with the man standing by him. The wolf warrior is searching for his prey hidden so far in one of the ships which are attempting to catch as in a pincer the city walls.

The burn in his palm is red hot searing pain; his broken leg howls its tortured state. And his cheeks feel the knife shearing through his skin. His body now is but a war chant about pain; somebody will pay. Fenrir is free from his chains. Odin, unnatural father, you have rejected me. Now, it is Ragnarok, and your undutiful son will kill you if it is the last thing he does on Midgard.

\- _"Ra. Na. Roc? What is it, my duke? You shiver every time you pronounce this word. What is it? A battle tactic?"_

The wolf looks at the soldier like an exasperated master looks at a particularly ungifted apprentice. A deep sigh precedes the answer the fool needs.

\- _"Ragnarok. The end of Times. The end of the world."_

 _\- " The Apocalypse! The end of Times. No, my Lord. We shall survive to live another day. These are not the horns of the Holy Book!"_

Are they going to hold a religious debate on Ragnarok? Are they going to waste more time? Now, he should be with his wife. The false labour of yesterday means the real one will follow. Soon. Once again, Odin and Ragnar, his misbegotten descendant, are trying to slaughter Loki's children. Fenrir remembers what has happened a long time ago. Fenrir forgets nothing. Fenrir is trying to hear the cockerels singing. The three cocks which herald Ragnarok.

Roland does not bother to waste more time discussing with a man with wild eyes. The husband of his princess is crazy. And this is a fact! When the frenzy of battle takes them all, the Imperial Guard hopes Rollo will remember who his friends are.

\- _"These horns on the Vikings long ships are atrocious. Tone deaf! Barbarians! They know nothing about…"_

A sort of silence follows the strange noise he has heard. A sound he is not alone to have heard. On board the ships, the effervescence of battle has slowed down to start again. To stop again, as the odd noise starts again. The North Men look at each other, unsure about what they should do about it.

Ragnar who has come up with this surprise attack looks at Bjorn wondering if there is not – again – a mysterious weapon hidden behind the walls which will destroy his fleet. Reducing his pride in shreds like two years ago, it has broken the soul of Floki. Lagertha who accompanies her son with her shield maidens does not understand but for one thing. The sound is ominous. The Gods do not approve of this raid against the city of marble.

The noise rises again in the fog of the early morning. Clearer, Closer. And this time, it is not alone. They all can hear albeit faintly drums … and horns. And they come for each side of the river.

Some women have begun to run up the stairs of the towers to watch. Roland is beaming. The men prisoners of the great walls are starting to shout while some sing what must be some Frank hymn about Charlemagne.

Ragnar has no choice but countermand the attack. It is not a defeat. Just the cancellation of a battle. The traitor will be punished. Later.

Later maybe. But the sound is now much closer and here they are. Bjorn watches and enrages as those who were under siege send volleys after volleys of bolts from their crossbows. His ships are too far to be in danger but the bitter taste of humiliation remains.

Then the odd sound rises again. Ragnar cannot see from his side though he would like. What he sees, is the look of abject terror of the men sailing down the river to return to their camp.

His wait is not too long as his own ship can now move away from the elusive fortress. And he sees it. The very long snake followed by a monstrous body. Immensely long white tusks are ready to skewer the impudent warrior who comes too near. The noise rises again and again. Not far from him, he imagines, are soldiers. The emperor has finally pulled it through. Charles the Weak has found troops. Enough troops to prevent Ragnar from winning this game of Tafl.

\- _"You were right. Lord Rollo. It is the end of times for the North Men. We are free"_

 _\- "Not free yet. This is a standoff. You do not know my brother"_

On each bank Norse warriors face Frank soldiers, and in the middle of the river Paris is waiting for a winner to be declared.

Rapidly, envoys riding horses enter in parley. Once again, kings meet to discuss how to end wars. Why fight if it always ends by discussing what the business is about. Why not start by discussing and skip the fight if it always, always ends up this way. Fenrir ever so slowly calms down as Sinric gives him good tidings. It was - again – a false labour!

If the Emperor weeps for the destruction of the little fort of the Left bank, he hides his tears very well. He does not seem to have suffered from all these rides across Burgundy, Alps, and Italy back and forth. He dares to wear a gold helmet on which a crown has been screwed; Ragnar smiles like the cat which is going to play with the mouse when he realizes Bjorn has jerked like he has been pierced by an arrow. Rollo who has crossed the river on a humble row boat has entered the tent of negotiations.

Bjorn has been able to have a few glimpses of his uncle. Always in battle. Not the best place to see how villainy has surely altered his face. He taunts him with disdainful eyes; he may show how enraged he is at meeting him. The result is he is not successful. Handsome Loki turned slowly ugly as he spiralled down into perfidy. Evil must have some unknown qualities then as he scans the face of Rollo.

Ragnar torn between illness and injuries sustained during the previous siege has aged quickly. It is now an old man sporting a long white beard, a great king. His father. Noble if tired king.

The traitor, this abject piece of humanity who should be gnarled and deformed dares to look like time has not touched him. Treachery looks good. Seasoned … yes. A man of experiences but a man in a magnificent summer. Who looks like a Frank if Bjorn had an older and Frank brother. By Odin, this is unfair. The only comfort the young warrior takes in his uncle's appearance is that the berserker looks harried and unhappy.

What he is whispering in the King's ear he has no clue; more bad news for his people no doubt as a large happy smile is being drawn on the imperial mouth. The emperor slaps in turn Rollo's shoulder as to congratulate the betrayer. Seething with indignation, Bjorn turns his eyes to his mother.

Lagertha has always disliked Rollo since the warrior has not accepted gracefully his rejection as lover. They could have been friends; it is his choice they never were. Again and again as a relentless wave goes after the unassailable cliff, he has come to her married or not to try his luck. The great warrior is a devious man ready to cuckold his own brother. A lot of things he is but not a great, not a good man. When Ragnar and she decided to go apart, then and then only, she would have understood Rollo supposed devotion to find an outlet. Siggy was alive; he rejected her ham fisted hints. But after… after, he has acted toward her as this ship had sailed a long time ago. His only redeeming quality was his apparent loyalty and affection for Bjorn and Gydda. Yet, if Bjorn is alive, it is not thanks to him. Rollo has fought off Bjorn; fought off again and again their people. Rollo is a bad man head to toes. Whether he is still physically attractive or not makes no dent in her shield. Snakes can have lovely scales; they remain venomous. Her eyes return to Bjorn attempting a faint smile as a mother reassures her child. Whatever happens, never doubt my love for you.

Ragnar has seen and now while he listens to Lagertha lashing comments at the traitor entrance and Bjorn indignation at seeing other traitors following Rollo in the tent; he starts to try and understand what makes a man betray not only his brother, but his kin, his kind. His people! His Gods. Rollo has gambled it all. And for what? A chit of a girl?

When they walked through the streets of Paris, his knife against her neck, he has to admit that the girl has not flinched. Weary yes, but daring him to kill her. During this long trek, he had to threaten her yet prevent her from obliging him to cut her life thread off. Had she been killed, his men and him would have never reached alive the doors. Ragnar would have died effectively with the raid ending up abjectly in utter defeat. The father, this impostor at kingship, this wimp is not corrupt; but he is a coward. Unlike her. This princess is exactly what his Gydda would have turned out to be. A true noble selfless shield maid. Courageous, wise. … Pretty too. Not beautiful as her mother but pretty enough to ensnare more than a few warriors in nets she probably does not even know she is throwing. A strong sense of duty can make people blind to their mundane qualities. Where is she?

Probably inside Paris. The treasure is inside Paris, as Athelstan has said. What is inside? Small yet immense, of little value yet of mind boggling worth. This princess with the true heart of an emperor must be where this treasure is. He must get it; and he will get Gydda back from the Dead. She is a wife they say… Therefore she can be widowed… and remarried. Bjorn himself is now a free man since poor Porunn… As the son of a king, as a king elected by his people as his successor, Bjorn has the perfect pedigree to call her to his side. The traitor is not going to be an obstacle to his plan of conquest for long…

What makes a traitor? His anger at his people? Or greed for what is offered to him? Ragnar is king; Rollo is only a duke… each brother is married to a princess. Is this what you want brother? Is this what you are calling equal?

Negotiations can begin; Sinric stands behind Rollo. Just another traitor for you. The North Men have taken a bite of the Emperor's realm. Paris has been protected from the Danes. Rollo's duchy has suffered greatly. And will suffer more! Are they so keen to meet the Frankish armies who are walking toward Paris? The men from Aquitaine, Provence, and Burgundy… the warrior of Austrasia, Rhineland and the high mounts of the Alps. Lotharingians and Bavarians who missed Poitiers are all too keen to show their prowess. Poitiers? What has this to do today? More than one hundred years ago, Charles the Hammer, illustrious grandfather to Charlemagne defeated pagan invaders from the South. Does King Ragnar wish a similar fate to his pagan Northern warriors? Are we going to waste time debating of religion?

Voices are rising, tempers are frayed yet they all remain seated until a breathless Imperial guard lifts the curtain of the tent to whisper something to Rollo. Whatever he says, must sting as Rollo almost jumps out of his stool to rush out of the tent.

Has Odin stricken down the traitor? Has Luck deserted the emperor?... No, the same guard whispers now something to the imperial ear and the reaction is totally different. The emperor was smiling; now he is humming something which sounds like what a happy man would be whistling… Bjorn who has started to hope looks dejected again. Lagertha remains a cipher. The emperor now starts to say something too low for Ragnar to pick up to his neighbours. Sinric has not left. Curious! One thing is sure though: Rollo does not like this piece of news but the franks are cheering. Would be cheering if they were not sitting in this tent. They all look more interested by what is… outside than by what is in discussion. Interesting… What is unsettling to a traitor and rejoicing his masters? Ragnar is good at mind games but this is a tricky one…

\- " _Can we resume the discussion of the treaty between the North Men and Frankia?"_

 _\- "Now that the outcast has left, we can start in earnest this meeting!"_

All the heads turn to Ragnar. What do the Vikings want?

Could Emperor Charles, Lord of the Franks share with us what is giving him such glee he is rubbing his hands in delight? I take this must be some excellent news?

The fish bites in the bait as expected. Bait but not hook as Charles starts to mention the laws of his realm. The line of succession enters the stage. Bjorn looks at the ceiling readying himself for a prosy lecture on the emperor dynasty; Lagertha is dumbfounded.

Today… maybe now… my heir is being born! Hopefully a boy. This is a very good day. My capital has been saved, your people have been stopped and soon this much awaited prince. A good day.

\- _"I congratulate your highness … and the empress!"_

Charles seems confounded.

- _"My beloved consort has been dead a good many years. I mean my grandson. Your brother and my daughter first born. And knowing my Gisla, I know she has been praying for a male heir to my kingdom!"_

Nodding in unison, all the Franks in the room approve of the Emperor speech. Interestingly, so does Sinric and his band of traitors. Rollo seems to have been able to build a group of faithful followers. Loki just like Floki can have real qualities. A gold nugget can be found among refuse.

A child! Naturally a child. His mind is racing. All he has ever wanted was to be his equal. A family, a wife, Bjorn. His own cub! The berserker wanted a cub!

- _"I shall then leave you to rejoice with your people. This treaty can certainly wait for another day. We shall meet again tomorrow and no doubt, I shall congratulate an imperial grandfather."_

After the last of the Franks has left the tent and the neutral area where it stands, Ragnar fist smashes on the table the beaker of tepid beer which was standing in front of him.

\- " _A child. As if my barren brother could be the father. Never in all the years I have known Rollo has he been able to tell me he was going to become a father! No child, no miscarriage, no pregnancy! Nothing. My brother is sterile. Always been sterile. The dark horse is a gelding!"_

 _\- "Unc… Rol… I mean the traitor. He knows it. How can he pretend not to know? He would know, wouldn't he? Odin has given this power in the males of our family… Why does he pretend? And this child… who is his father? He is going to become heir of an immense territory? Why does Rol..lo play this farce?"_

\- " _Rollo wants a son. At whatever price. A son will be born even if it is a daughter who pops out. Mark my word. Rollo will get his son. This is why he has forsaken our Gods. They were refusing him his wish. The Franks have read through him. Rollo will claim a boy!"_

 _\- "And everybody on the Frank side is ready to swear hand on his heart, oath on his spear that the child born to the princess is Rollo son. No wonder he betrayed us. A whole people, priests included is ready to turn his wish into a reality…"_

And there is no way to stop this

There is a way.

Ragnar eyes bore into Lagertha. She smiles. As she lifts the tent, she turns to Ragnar.

If this is not a lie, if the magic of the Christ God is so strong it defeats what our Gods have fated, you will have to accept the child as one of us.

He will never be one of us… He is already a Nordmanni. Do not look surprised Bjorn. If you think Rollo is going to allow Charles to raise his son, you are mistaken. Charles and my brother look for a child. My brother has waited too long to let go of his son to this limp wrist.

Then, if the child is really my uncle's son… My Siggy has a cousin.

If the child is Rollo… Athelstan believed in miracles…

Night will be coming soon. Lagertha has a plan to get inside Paris: all she needs a boat, a rower and an introduction. And Sinric will provide it.

- _"Sinric, take me to the palace"_

Startled like a hare, Sinric looks at Lagertha as if he does not understand the language she uses. As if the son of Kattegat has forgotten his own mother language.

- _"Hurry up, Sinric! If you think that I have other things to do than attend the birth of my nephew, you better tell me now!"_

The Paris soldiers who keep the wall signal to their colleagues below they can open one door. The little bridge is no more, the gates are closed but they open for Lagertha and Sinric. After brushing her clothes from the ash which has rubbed against the rope ladder thrown at her and Sinric to climb into the city from the small row boat, the shield maid faces a squadron of soldiers.

- _"Take me to the palace, idiots. What do you think one unarmed woman can do? I am Rollo sister. If you think Rollo is going to approve of you denying me entry to the birthing chamber of my nephew, you are wrong"_

Sinric translates. Seems to confirm what she says as the guards point their spears toward the streets which open their mouths to the gates. Sinric points at one of them seemingly vaguely wider, large enough to have two carts crossing each other or two horses and their riders. This time, nobody runs away from her. Rather the opposite, people gap at her, point at her. She feels the hate, the curiosity. This impression one is the odd one out. She does not fit in. She sees the veils covering the women, the crosses of all sorts of cuts, metals yet always crosses. Some add other pendants and she remembers Athelstan mentioning amulets dedicated to these minor Gods called Saints by the monk.

There are not a lot of children and most are too young to walk on their own. Other women look at the Norse lady eye to eye, dating her to compete with them. Red cheeks redder than berries, eyes more charcoaled than Floki has ever dated. And this is these smells. Rot yes, manure and refuse as it would be expected in any town… yet there is something else and as they get nearer to the palace, located in a part of the city she had not entered she starts smelling something different. She knows of the Spices traded form a fabled South she does not dare to dream about. And it smells like the street has been under a rain of them. What she does not know is that a large jar has been opened to help with the coming birth. What she has not seen is Rollo racing through the streets, almost pushing away the soldiers who keep the palace entrance. The uniforms are in tatters, the shields are not shiny, stained by too many assaults between the estuary and the capital. The soldiers are tired but should the Norse woman act suspiciously, Lagertha has no doubt they would find in themselves the strength to kill her. The shield maid can fight but their number outmatches her.

Egbert was proud of his warm pool, proud of his statues and other frescoes. Egbert looks… provincial compared to this statement of what real power is about. True, the king of Wessex lives in a stone building. From what she has seen in Paris, beggars can live in houses made of stones. What is power is measured on how high the dwelling is. She knows of ladders, lofts in barns. She knows of belfries and bell towers. What she was not expecting is these flights of stairs which attack walls, are repulsed to attack them again like a higher wave goes after the cliffs. The steps go up and up like one starts walking up a hill and it gets harder and harder for the climber as he realizes the gentle slopes are turning into steep mountainsides. On each side, she sees frescoes following more frescoes interspaced by mosaics on which processions of nobles after processions pf aristocrats follow more grandees until she reaches a floor where an emperor meets his counterpart consort. The mosaics dance on a background of gold. Poor Egbert, whose heart full of envy has done his best to lead the raiders to the coasts of Frankia as a derivative from his harassed kingdom…

Lagertha smiles and stops to look at the view from a balcony overlooking the river. Night is coming. Another day come and gone. Ragnarok happens every day used to say her father… Still she is climbing to what must be now the private apartments as the decoration of the walls though still stupendous with fine tapestries accompanies narrower steps. Rollo has run these stairs four at a time, uninterested by the work of the mosaicists or the artists. Rollo's mind was three steps ahead of him when he returned to the palace.

 _\- "The baby is coming; the princess is waiting for you"_

Preceded by Sinric who leads her to a room full of men in arms, Franks and traitors united in the same wait, she is presented to a door kept by warriors who have betrayed Kattegat. These men should blush and hide in shame: they look proud. They stand tall unassailed by her judging gaze. These peoples with whom she has grown up fought with look at her with the unperturbed gaze of men who do not know her. They do not wish her harm. The do not see her as one of them. They are not Franks but they look like they know nothing of Kattegat, nothing of Hedeby. They are belonging to another world.

\- _"Lagertha is Rollo…"_

 _\- "We know who she is. The Lady Lagertha can enter the room. Not you, Sinric!"_

The great door in bronze whose owner would allow him to build a ship with 100 rowers and this is a modest estimate opens, taking her to face a curtain then it closes behind her. Only then, a corner of the drape is lifted and she knows she has reached her goal. The room reeks of spices, the light is poor. On consequence, it feels stuffy. In a corner, some veiled women in a sort of uniform are singing low something she does not understand. Behind curtains, male voices reply to the nuns. Priests probably, allowed if blind. And a beehive of women: a lot of young girls many pregnant, more of the painted ladies. On a bed, biting ferociously some rags, a pregnant woman. A child. A girl barely older than her Gydda. By her side, Ragnar's brother. Bjorn's uncle. The man who wanted to become her lover… a long time ago. Before …

Lagertha smiles as Rollo welcomes her with a sigh of relief. He thanks her in Norse to carry on in Frank. Of what he says, she has a faint idea. The young woman who was daring her to come anyway near her gives the hint of a shy smile. Lagertha then sits at the end of the bed, near an old woman who seems to be in her dotage. This time, it is her turn to sigh. It was a stupid midwife who has stolen from her this precious second son Ragnar wanted so much. Rollo has no idea same fate is waiting for him…

Rollo smiles and carries on. It is Lagertha. His sister. The mother of his nephew Bjorn. Whatever happens between Ragnar and him has nothing to do with their little warrior. Ragnar for all his crimes knows that the unborn child is innocent. Lagertha has come like the family member she is. If the empress was alive, if his mother was still on Midgard, the two ladies would cross swords as who will hold first the little one. At this is not an ideal world, there is this Norse aunt and she will do just as well. No fight between a high born lady and a stubborn grandmother who knows her rights…

Wiping the flushed forehead of his wife, Rollo does his best to distract her from this pain, these fangs which are tearing her body apart. The battle is raging and the little warrior has not yet won…

More wan smiles, some beads pf sweat. More panting. The pretty face becomes ugly when a contraction is too painful. The woman-child is losing the battle thinks Lagertha. Something in her rejoices. The impostor should die and Rollo's dream to better himself at the cost of his people being crushed, turned into dust. Hidden under her jerkin, a small yet deadly knife is ready, close at hand. Tempting, daring her to strike.

She would if this was what she had expected. The son should have been presented, miracle accomplished, to the complicit false father. The princess is desperately trying to put out a child which may turn out to be a girl. The jealous brother is holding tenderly his wife hand when he should not be interested by the womb which offers him the much desired son.

When the acme of the contraction is reached, a dedicated virgin offers to kiss a cross to Rollo's wife. Some other Frank woman whose neck is adorned strangely by a Norse necklace presents something with smells like spiced salts to revive her. In another corner, an older woman reads aloud … what, she does not know… Rollo is just as ignorant as her as he indicates to his wife about the nun. The answer does not please him as he gets up and closes the book with a loud snap.

 _\- "This is a birth! Not a wake"_

Lagertha does not understand: this should be the final straw to the trick which allows the Emperor to hoodwink the Norse man yet all she sees is a young woman whose exhaustion is going to lead to her death bed. A child whose sex is not a forgone conclusion. Spouses who love each other. Because they do. Rollo mutters something which sounds like Constantinople to Lagertha's ears and it brings a smile to the princess, like a private joke that the two share.

To an inaudible whisper of his wife comes the brash statement that he has not bothered thinking about a girl's name as it is a boy. Gisla rolls her eyes upward, mutters this time louder something which rings suspiciously as an how does he know!

\- _"Tell her, Lagertha! Tell her than all the men of my family are able to know when their wives are with child down to the sex of the child!"_

She nods; she has to nod. She cannot but confirm that indeed it is true but her answer is in Norse and Gisla does not understand the words which soot like quick arrows.

\- _"Tell her. The Mothers protect her. I know; I have seen them. All she needs is to take a deep breath and push out! … As the doctor has told her but yesterday."_

How does Rollo know? How does he know what she has seen when Ragnar was pressing his own hand on her own belly, what she had seen of the three matrons president over a sleeping child in the red room? Why does he know? Has he been told? By whom? She has never discussed it with any woman of Kattegat; as for Ragnar, if he has been quite clear that he has always known when she was pregnant as if he was able to confirm her sweet secret, he has never been told of the Goddesses. Freyr maybe the God of Fertility; it is Frigga, Freya and Jord who are the Matrons. Fiercely protective, nurturing and bountifully giving. The Mothers! How does a berserker know of what volvas and volvas only know? Of her secret when Ragnar was caressing her abdomen?

If there is no treachery, no lie. If this is really Rollo's son, does it imply she is there to cut this child thread? An innocent child… After losing her own child, she is going to kill another one. Why her? Why kill what she has called precious, what she is still mourning in her heart?

- _"Help her. Please, by Thor, help her! Breathe, my love. Steady, yes, steady. Good girl. Steady. … steady. We shall try again"_


	22. Part 3 Chapter 7 The new Gods

Rollo's frantic plea for help is not lost on her; the knife is here, ready. Yet the child is not coming. Why? What is happening? Gisla looks at her like a terrified child begging for help. Like Gydda who needed her when she bled from her first monthly wound. Gydda … Gydda becoming a woman. Just as much at risk as this Gisla. Gydda, the princess… children… girls playing at being women… her girl…

Shaking her head, trying to focus on something else beside the spread-apart legs of the princess and the open wound by which the child will come out, Lagertha turns her head to her neighbour to realize the old woman has started to panic. Something is indeed not going right. Today, like a long time ago in Kattegat, a child will not be born. It has been butchery and her nights go through the nightmare she has experienced once and a while. Ragnar would rejoice, wouldn't he? The princess is now so drained her skin is pale like snow…like Gydda after…

Yet the child is so close she can see the dark hair showing. Showing her what?

A more anguished shout is followed by a cry to her late mother. She is a failure; she has failed everybody: the empire, her father, her brother. Mother, mother please. Mother, Marie, blessed mother of Jesus, help me! Is she alive? A weakening hand is losing her grasp on her husband wrist. Is he dead already? Is it death? There is this pain which is opening her apart.

- _"Maman!"_

Mother? Mother… As protection, as care. Unless it is the crucified mother with empty arms. What is a mother but the one who knows the price of a failed battle…A woman who knows what real sacrifice means?

Abruptly, without warning, Lagertha pushes away the midwife and puts her hand where she knows she must. Feels the head, pushes it back, sliding her fingers between it and the bleeding wall as Rollo moves just as quick from the side of his wife to the end of the birthing bed. Rollo does not understand except this is it. Now.

The Norse woman feels softly, under the chin of the baby and smiles. Yes, the cord. The cord is around this little child neck, strangulating the baby at each push from his mother. Freyr is once again begged. Please save this child. Not for me, not for my Gydda because it is too late for her. Please spare this child; spare this other Gydda… The cord is lifted away as a nod signals to the mother this is really the last push and…

The hair, which looks black, which is probably chestnut, is quite long precedes a red and wrinkled face… and out it goes! The child does not breathe. Tired all ready, little one? The battle has just begun! A gentle spank will remind you that battles are not won by weaklings. Lagertha does not utter these words; she lives them.

Royal infants are no different than the children of slaves. They are covered in blood yelling at the top of their lungs of the outrage they are suffering. A clean cloth is handed to her by … she does not know except the woman smiles.

Rollo holds out his hands to be given the precious, so precious package. A wiggling howling package to be held with infinite tenderness. Not yet, Rollo; not yet.

Now, now only, does Lagertha understand why she had to save this life, why the Gods have instructed her to hide a knife?

\- _"Rollo, the cord! You need to cut the cord!"_

Rollo looks at her like he does not understand the meaning of this, so Lagertha points at the cord and he cuts it as the midwife resumes her duty. The cord, the old woman will deal with it with a thick silk thread… And yes, now it is over. The dumbstruck father brings the wailing baby to the new mother and both parents are cut from this world. The trio at the head of the birthing bed is so far away from Lagertha.

Is this what Ragnarok is; is it how it ends? Is it what the new Gods are, how the world starts afresh again? By children? Children who will see more tomorrows than us? Has Odin taken her second son to teach her what to do to prevent such tragedy to ever happen again to her family?

If Rollo is in a trance, Gisla is all smiles. She thanks her husband's sister profusely but all Lagertha sees is Gydda. Gydda who speaks language mortals cannot understand because she is still on this side of Ragnarok and her daughter has crossed the veil of mortal life. Gydda alive with a grandchild she will never hold in her arms. Thus she smiles; she smiles to this Gydda so alive with the grandchild she will never hold in her arms and it feels good. Blessed are the Gods for this cruel kindness! This is the will of the Gods; sometimes one has to lose for others to win later. From the death of this unborn son, the shield maid has been weary of birthing chambers; she has slowed down her pace to allow the child Siggy to come in this world under the aegis of Aslaug. Today, she is freed from the fear of bringing sorrow. She has saved the little one. She has brought once more a new life to this world. She is no more barren! Blessed be Frigga who has allowed her to play her role today!

All the women have stopped on their tracks; the beehive is immobile looking at the parents and the hidden infant. The priests still singing low are coming to a stop. Everybody is waiting.

 _\- "Rollo. It is your turn. You have to claim the child"_

Ragnar's brother stands up with a curious shy albeit proud smile to be stopped by a quick flow of words coming from Gisla.

- _"I know what I have to do. It will be a good name. Trust me!"_

In Kattegat, the father takes nine days to name the child though the claiming is immediate. In Frankia, new-borns are given a name immediately, a baby who will be probably Christian. Lagertha is not sure she is happy about this. She moves over to the side of the young mother. Her Frank is very limited; she will not speak but her hand pats over a royal one. Women do not always need to speak to understand each other. To support each other. Sharing together joys and pains.

A knock on the door and it opens. Outside, blinking from the morning light, Rollo enters the room where it seems a crowd is waiting for him.

Sinric… yes, Sinric and his Nordmanni. Ah, there is Roland and his loyal soldiers. There are other people he does not know. From their flashy armours, he guesses they are aides-de-camp. Army advisors to the Emperor. The Emperor is not allowed yet in Paris. There is the small matter of ending this war. A war Rollo has fought; a war now meaningless. A battle which has not be won by Ragnar and the Franks but by this little creature, who is discovering the world around him with surprised eyes. A brand new world…

Near the window… , who is this tall shadow? Near the window, he blinks as he recognizes Bjorn. Bjorn and some of the young man' warriors. Largely outnumbered by the two other groups; albeit here. This is right. Born to a North Man and a Frank to one day reign over a people born like him to Franks and men from Kattegat. His Nordmanni as now his people, Rollo's own people are called. Three goddesses have presided over the birth; Odin through the son of the Son of the one eyed God, Freyr the Fruitful with the soldiers of rich Frankia and Thor with his wolf and bear own warriors are present at this claiming. Yes, this is good. Thor, the ultimate greatest warrior of all is there.

Still, he is alone… Not lonely but alone. Ragnar is missing. He accepts this. Ragnar will be entering the night soon. The new born does not need this bad omen.

In his arms, softly wailing and making clear to all, the new born wiggles in swaddles embroidered by a silver thread. Gisla has fought her battle and won. Now it is his moment. The claiming of the child along the naming. There will be no mistake.

\- _"Nordmanni, Franks, North Men. Friends, guests. Family. Today, the duchess… my duchess, the Princess Gisla, my wife… has given me the most precious treasure of all: a child. Before you, I claim this … noisy… piece of humanity as mine. My child born of my loins. To my family, my kin. To my friends… to Emperor Charles… to my guests I present you my first born. My heir. MY SON!"_

The room explodes in sounds. Nordmanni draw their swords out high in the air as to offer them to the Gods as thanks. Bjorn has seen this before in Kattegat: the cheers, the stomping of feet and the clapping. What he was not waiting for is that the Franks in perfect harmony are kneeling in front of the child offering him their swords by holding them by both hands. His diminutive crying cousin is an imperial princeling. By birth, the child has entered Charlemagne's bloodline. Lagertha has spared the baby; his little Siggy may have won a cousin but her father has possibly got a future enemy…

Everybody falls on Rollo's back, offering congratulations. A good natured queue takes form. The Franks are kissing the swaddles as a horseman is dispatched to the Imperial grandfather.

As Lagertha watches outside from the window the morning sun rising in the blue sky, she hears the bells. Two years ago, they were singing despair. Today, it is like the world was born again. Joyfully.

= _"Go and bring good tidings. A child is born. The world has been granted another chance"_

Athelstan has mentioned something like this when he was telling her snug household about his beliefs as a Christian. Bells…

What has Odin decided? Should they enter into a treaty with the Franks? After all, the little warrior is neither Frank nor Norse unless he is both. Unless he is the prince of peace of legends. Unable to choose between his father and his mother. Bring unity between them. Able to bring together the best of both worlds. The guaranty of a solid and permanent peace between Franks and the people of Kattegat. Loyal to his grandfather and his paternal family without treason.

Lagertha smiles as she allows herself to enter into the happy mood.

Everybody is happy. Bjorn is happy too though his mind reels at hearing the berserker cooing to the infant. A little boy who takes strongly after his sire. Ragnar is going to be disappointed; he has a nephew whose eyes are probably his mother's as he looks over the child who seems to settle in the arms of his father.

- _"A long sword, I see"_

Rolling his eyes up, Rollo shakes his head in faked outrage. Yes, it is a baby boy. But it will take a long time before this sword will see any action!

Rollo is happy as he has never been happy. For a very long time. Now a nosy cough makes him turn.

- _"My Lord Duke. Err… we were wondering … what name are you going to bestow on the prince?"_

Name, a name. They want a name… Good thing he has come up with a brilliant idea.

 _\- "Yes, Uncle. What name are you going to give to this Christian child, I take he is going to be Christian as the people of this realm, right?"_

Rollo looks squarely at Bjorn and says the name. Drawing as he was expecting it blank looks. The name is repeated.

 _\- "A Norse name then."_

 _\- "A Christian Norse name. And a bow to Emperor Charles family"_

 _\- "Would you be ever so kind to repeat it?"_

Once again, the name is pronounced. Once again Bjorn says nothing. Does not mock; does acknowledge. Almost as his smile turns sarcastic.

- _"Remind me of what it means?"_

Rollo does not look very happy; well, he deserves a lesson, isn't it?

- _"Wilful protector, leader... Like Guihelm in Frankish. … Like Vilhjamr in Hedeby… the southern part of it. In Nordmanni… in Normannia, we pronounce it William!"_

Bjorn does not cough, does not enter into the challenge of his uncle.

- _"Excellent choice, my Lord, Excellent choice. Blessed Guihelm is a great ornament of the Imperial family. Born to a daughter of Charles the Hammer, he has been a loyal ally to his Imperial cousin, our emperor's own grandfather. Excellent, excellent"_

The wave of Franks recedes, leaves with beaming faces… Leaves uncle and nephew face to face. The time has come to settle the debt of blood… or not.

\- " _Excellent. A typical Christian name currently used in Kattegat. Remind me to inform Aslaug of this detail"_

Rollo answers to Bjorn;s banter by a sly if mute long smirk and both men start laughing together. Until Rollo stops as the little warrior who was asleep wakes up and starts to complain loudly.

- _"What? What is happening? I have woken him up"_

 _\- "I know this cry. My cousin is hungry. Really, Uncle, your child is starv…"_

But Rollo is already gone back to the door, through the lifted curtain…

William, a name typical of Nordmanni when they happen to be good Christians… Ragnar will be rolling on the floor about this ridiculous name. Poor little warrior. Poor cousin…

It has taken a few days to conclude the treaty and now it is time to leave. The Frank army has not moved but for added re-enforcements. It could have been worse. Ragnar accepts Paris will remain off limits but he has farming colonies. Who in turn will be Christian like the duchess? The duke will make sure they are safe; in consequence he will be their ruler. Bjorn and his ships will winter safely in the harbours controlled by the Nordmanni while the three people will be able to trade with each other in peace. There is no winner and no loser. Ragnar has acknowledged the small peace-weaver as his nephew. For the sake of the child who units the best of all these men, peace wins the day.

Peace. Peace has a price like war. Costlier as he has found out yesterday.

Ragnar's ship sails close to the walls of a city he will never enter again. Only the dead said the Seer. From the ramparts, Ragnar cannot guess which shadow, which taller shadow is his brother. Last time, his heart was full of suspicion; yet he could see his sibling distinctively. Now that there is no fear, no distrust, he cannot see the duke as if this is a world where he does not belong. As if this world where Rollo rules, where his brother is happy, is fated to remain in the shadows from Ragnar's scrutiny. The sun is finally shining for the two of them but it is such a cruel defeat. Such a cruel twist. They are equal yet they are not to meet ever again, worlds apart. An old world, a new world. Ragnarok has seen Odin and Fenrir fight. Their lives have been spared at the price of this amputation from each other. Fenrir bound by love, Fenrir free at last from Odin. Fenrir, king of his very own pack, invisible to Odin's eye. The wanderer can sail all over the world; Odin can rule over Asgard. But not in this world, this land. His bear cub will never marry the princess; his Bjorn will never grab the crown of the Franks. Where are you brother? Are you there, waving a good bye, hoping I will acknowledge the man I have named outlaw, the man who is now cast out of Kattegat?

Rollo is not there. Rollo is no more his brother. No one will ever watch his back. He has won the world; he has lost his past. His greatest call at fame reeks of loss. He has won glory; he has lost so much in happiness…

Tomorrow, Ragnar leaves. Yesterday, peace has been agreed. A humiliating peace. For him. For Gisla. In a way, the princess and the berserker are equal. One rejected by his family, the other disappointed by hers. Ragnar has refused to enter into a treaty with the duke of the Normanni, preferring one with a prince who is free from corruption.

- _"I have met many kings. Some who failed their brothers like Aelle, some who threatened my family as Horik. I have known kings waiting like cowards to strike out of sight my people like a king in Wessex. All of them corrupt. Today, I will enter into a settlement with my kinsman who I know is not corrupt."_

The Norse king has carried on. Bowing to the astonished emperor and acknowledging the new-born heir to the duchy and the Empire as an equal. Ragnar has made peace… with his nephew.

The former farmer of Kattegat has been happy to do so knowing the prince's father - and he has not uttered once the name of his brother - will make sure the trust is justified. Ragnar trusts in the honourability of the child – and this child only. The North Men will not raid Paris, will not raid the Seine. The Emperor allows on his side more Norse farmers on his lands. The men from Kattegat will enjoy safe wintering in the harbours of Normannia. Normannia is to be acknowledged by Kattegat as a neutral realm ruled by a duke who serves his father-in-law while every settler will have to forgo fealty to his past king and serve the new lord of the Nordmanni. … And they will worship the God Christ abandoning the idols of their past!

 _\- "Naturally! This goes without saying…"_

Good-humouredly, Ragnar accepts, yet it sounds like a warning, that the new settlers who will abandon the way to Asgard will also abandon their seat at the banquet hall of Kattegat. If their new lord lives in Frankia worshiping the God of the Franks acknowledging as kin Franks, in turn they will be no more Norse men, servants of Odin. They will be cast out of Kattegat; they will have no family where Ragnar rules as a man can only have one allegiance. Rollo has not winced at becoming an outcast. In truth, he was way past caring. He has wanted for so long to rule, to be acknowledged as a great man, that the recognition of his greatness by the Franks is good enough for him. While it is true Ragnar, Lagertha and Bjorn are family, they are not his family. Not his wife, not his beloved little warrior. Like a man who has come late into a treasure, the berserker keeps it only for the ones who have shown faith in him, who have recognized his worth. Kattegat knows him as a traitor, a drunkard; Frankia sees him as a noble saviour. Who would blame Rollo to turn to this land of the South as his new home?

Once the fate of the Nordmanni settled, the discussion has carried on. A levy would be taken to free the land occupied by the men of Ragnar. Levy is a vulgar word; an anticipated payment sounds much better. Payment to be later paid in full if some Northmen were to serve the Emperor and teach the rebels of Burgundy a lesson they would not forget.

Some Norse warriors remember Mercia where no man survived. The emperor reminds Ragnar that to settle, his men must limit their ambition to Normannia and learn to pray a new God. They will fight for Charles and be paid like mercenaries. Nothing more, nothing less.

Gisla has bitterly wept as what she calls treason from her father against her people. The people of Frankia. Woe to the ruler who befriends the enemy to strike his people!

Shamed by Ragnar, Rollo has tried to console she who is ashamed of her father's behaviour.

As soon as possible, once Charles is back in his capital after the long ships are to be swallowed in the fog of the horizon, Rollo will take his family back to the land near the estuary. There, he will order to rebuild the probably devastated palace of Rouen. In fact, he has a lot of plans. Normannia is going to become a window for the people of the North. It will show to all the industry, the qualities of his people. They will be at peace with the raiders of the sea and their families inland. Peace and success without battles. Or limited battles… He sees rich farms, wealthy market towns. Trade between England, Frankia and Kattegat. An exile, he will remain. But an exile, who has made his home abroad and refuses to return to his past. Normannia…Their home.

Tomorrow, the long ships will sail down the river down to the estuary. Tomorrow, he will become from now on, without hope to alter his condemnation, an in-lander. The man born to raid will rule over farmers, merchants, and some priests of the Christ God. Yet, he is feeling elated as if he was happy.

His wife is rocking in her arms a contented baby, singing something which sounds like a lullaby. Domestic happiness. Was it worth it? You bet, Ragnar. It was totally worth it!

- _"Father will have to wait till a bridge is built back to enter the city in majesty"_

Charles can enter the city the way he wants to. Rollo has ordered some of his men to scout for chariots, horses and carts. An in-lander travels the way of in-landers. By foot and horses. Nor that he relishes horses but he will travel, leaving Paris as soon as possible.

- _"In two-three days, we shall go home, little warrior. Home!"_

The small finger of the large hand is grasped by his son. His son…. The baby has accepted that the giant whose voice rings like thunder is to be trusted; soon he will understand what love is. Soon, he will accept this giant is his loving father. Soon his son will acknowledge him as his father. Soon. The bond between a father and his child is the strongest of all. This new life is a gift of the Gods. A wonderful gift and this bond to his son is such a wonderful feeling!

Little warrior; little William whose hand is barely big enough to circle his father's finger. But the grip is good… as grip go for new-borns. After freeing delicately the smallest of paws to caress the soft hair, after commenting on the likelihood for the little warrior to turn to have curls… After kissing his wife forehead and advising her to take some sleep…

- _"He is fine. You do not need to get up from bed every instant to check if he is breathing, You need to rest… otherwise your milk will turn sour by needless anxiety!"_

Rollo leaves the room to take counsel from himself in the palace' empty rooms. Tonight, he is still his lord. Tonight he is still like Odin seeing the whole of Midgard in one glance, like Charlemagne surveying the whole Empire and its neighbours. And it gives him an idea.

After all this normal course of what happy families are about, Rollo is strolling in the halls of the palace. At his own leisurely pace. Looking at frescoes, silk curtains, and fancy tapestries. He takes notice of fancy chairs and tables. Of what a palace must be when one is a royal prince. Of what is deemed the proper environment for a royal child to grow into… There is no fear of an attack, no stress about an incoming wedding with a reluctant bride. Ragnar may have forsaken him; still, he wishes the best of luck to his brother. Tonight, all is quiet. The world is at peace. A new world. A world all quiet, conspiring to allow sweet dreams for an innocent infant. Ragnarok come and gone… As if nothing has happened; as if nothing has mattered but for this child. There is so much he wants to do to make this baby safe. So much… And he will!

A discreet cough interrupts his musings.

- _"My Lord. We have been able to bring some wood inside the city. A warm bath has been prepared for you"_

A warm bath. The offer is excellent and sincerely appreciated. A warm bath, domestic comforts. The life of the crazy bears, wild and free, hedonistic yet fraught with perils becomes less and less attractive. A warm bath, a happy home… a wife and a little boy trying out his first steps on the wet sand of a beach… Laughs, companionship. Trust. Comfortable, domestic happiness. In Frankia, in this Paris, Rollo has found all what he has ever wanted. The God Christ is a powerful God who protects his people, who rewards his people! He must pray this God. It may be he is not sure of the prayers; but he is sincere. Ragnar, you have your Odin and I have my Christ. Let's part and stay friends.

Following the guard, Rollo enters the private baths of the emperor. There he is met by the same statues, the same frescoes and mosaics which look alien yet friendly. Worn out pieces of art; familiar objects. Objects of domesticity he is learning to appreciate at their true worth.

A servant, some high rank servant from the uniform he is wearing is preparing the bath. The Northman undresses, throwing his clothes in a haphazard manner, earning the tut-tutting of the servant.

- _"Please, my Lord. Do not use Hercules as a cloth hanger. Not him, please"_

Happiness has soothing quality. A crazy bear would have roared; a satisfied father is tolerant. What is the use of this statue but serve the bathers? The servant looks at him as if he was unsure whether to speak or remain silent. But protocol is stronger. Protocol goads him into explaining to this barbarian the does and don'ts to the emperor' coarse son in law. A man who washes once a week possibly; yet whose chest and arms are covered in pagan symbols…

\- _"The palace was built a long time ago…"_

The man drones on while Rollo slips into the pool. If the man blushes, the former berserker has no care. Fighting bare chest is a given; and fighting in the nude is one of the first stages of training to become one. The warm bath is relaxant and his tense muscles start to unstiffen.

- _"The baths were bespoken for Emperor Julian. Known as the Apostate. This emperor, though born and baptized Christian wanted to resume the worship of the idols!"_

Now, this is new to him. A Christian wanting to become a heathen as Christians are keen to name his people?! He asks the servant to carry on. Sadly, the servant does not know much. This Julian died shortly after his betrayal to Christ… Rollo wants to know more about a man who has behaved like Athelstan.

\- _"This lost soul ordered his baths to depict the pantheon of the Olympus. You have noticed Hercules, son of the king of the Gods. On the East and West Wing wall you can Hercules's half-brothers and sisters: Apollo, the Sun-God and Diana. The Moon-Goddess."_

As this is getting interesting, Rollo gets out of the bath and looks at close inspection the frescoes. A young man playing the lyre with a young woman and her bow. A skald and a shield maid as if they were born in Frankia. The room is divided into 3 recesses separated by segments of walls covered by frescoes and mosaics. This design must be significant but alas this eludes him. The servant dos not know much about Roman History; he is none the less knowledgeable about the Gods of Rome.

\- _"In front of us, we have Jupiter king of the Gods in the centre chapel and on each side, his brothers Pluto and Neptune. Naturally, as these are the baths. Neptune, God of the Sea is glorified. Pluto also as he rules on the underworld and the riches found in the soil such as gold mines…"_

Upon wondering who these gods are, Rollo is told they are three brothers and the mightiest of the Roman pantheon. The Norse man approves: Odin also has two brothers. How do they call Valhalla in this Southern world? Gods are it seems the same who look so different in the South from what they are in the North? Franks play at being Christian or rather they have Gods but they do not worship them. How strange?

Gisla will have a lot of explanations to give him…

\- There is no Valhalla, there are the Elysian Fields where lovers are reunited and good people are rewarded by eternal happiness.

Remembering about Ragnarok and this Christian Apocalypse, Rollo asks more questions. Getting more astonishing answers.

( _Ragnar… no, sorry, There is no end of times, no end of the world. The world of the Roman Gods never ends. … Never ends!_ )

 _\- "Are your G… I mean these Gods… these idols cruel?"_

That they can be naughty, facetious and vindictive is the answer he gets.

\- _"Imagine! One day, Jupiter fell in love with a beautiful mortal yet she would have none of it. By morphing into the body of her husband, he was able to lay with her and begat Hercules! What a villainous action!"_

The servant is outraged. At the husband being cuckolded, at the virtuous wife being lied to. To Rollo's ears, it is quite funny. It is something Odin or Loki could do.

- _"How is Odin? Sorry, Jupiter… how is he… with his children?"_

- _"Jupiter for all his sins is a good father who cares for his children, mortals and immortals alike. Hercules was his favourite son albeit mortal. When he died, his heavenly father made him a God!"_

Rollo looks at the statue with a different eye. He sees on the head the pelt of a great predator. And the mighty stick. The statue could be Thor if Thor was a berserker…

\- _"This Roman God of War and Death is a kind God in your world!"_

The servant coughs. Mars, son of Jupiter is not the most intelligent of Gods as for Pluto, if he is shrewd; he has most cruelly abducted charming Proserpina to enjoy selfishly the love of the spring goddess. The new names confuse the duke of the Nordmanni until he realizes that there is no god of war and death at the same time. It is as if Odin has given away this and that power and more to the other gods to become at the end inexistent.

\- _"If you have no Odin, who is this Jupiter? Who is the king of your Gods?"_

Snatching a towel to cover himself, led by the servant, he is led to the central chapel. To pay in a way homage to the greatest of the Gods. To the master of the Olympus where the Gods all live happily forever after and for Eternity. If you are a Roman believer that is.

A pillar prevents him from falling. At the centre, stands Jupiter in all his glory. The God of the skies, holding his thunderbolt in his hand, his faithful eagle at his feet, rules over all. Jupiter, regnans, sits on his throne, lording above all things and creatures. Jupiter who loves to wander among his beloved mortals…

 _\- "Are you well, my Lord?"_

Waving his hand in reply, the brother of Ragnar Lothbrok is drawn nearer the mosaic. He reads each and every detail: the Gods and more Gods albeit smaller with at the centre just below the king of the Gods a figure he now recognizes as Hercules, son of Jupiter. The Roman berserker, son of Thor, king of the Gods. There is no Odin in Rome because in Rome, it is Thor, God of Thunder and Lightnings who is the king of the Gods. This is Thor who is the father of Hercules. the greatest of Roman warriors. The father of the Roman War God, Mars...

And now… now all makes sense… and he starts dancing naked around the pool in front of the offended and worried eyes of the servant as the bath towel slips on the floor. Yes he dances, laughing, crying. And happy; so happy, so blissfully happy. Till he falls on his knees in front of the central figure of the mosaic.

- _"Faðir, faðir… I am home! I have found my home! I have finally found where home is"_

As why Thor is king of the Gods in the lands of the South, he does not know nor wish to know. Odin reigns in the North, Thor in the South. All was signaled to him; all is now making sense which he has missed, glaringly missed. His mother amulet, this feeling Father was not his father. All the clues leading him to the South and the stupid, stupid bear missing it all. He wonders why his divine father has never washed his hands of his hapless son. But a real father never rejects his child, isn't it?

He is home. At long last home. This land which is generous to him like a caring mother has been waiting for him. His father is blessing the prodigal son with endless gifts. Father, I am home!

In turn now without jealousy, he can gladly leave Odin. and all what Odin is about, to Ragnar.

"Reign in the North, brother. Be happy and prosperous in the North"

Now he knows, now he accepts that he will never see Kattegat again. This is his home, this land is his. Ragnar can raid the seas, the land belongs to him. Belongs to his son. To the son of Thor.

Tomorrow, he will not bother to watch over the departing ships. Though he will make sure the long ship holding a raven banner is leaving, he will remain inside his room. With his family. Tomorrow is what Normannia is about…

Today, tomorrow, Normannia… A world happy forever where there is no Ragnarok. Tomorrow belongs to a sleeping infant satisfied for now by suckling a Frank breast. Tomorrow belongs to his little warrior. Today, Rollo, son of Thor, son of this Jupiter, is the prince of the Olympus. The prince has finally come home. And this world is his.

Later, much later before returning to Hedeby after Bjorn will have asked her how she has been thanked for the help she has brought by his uncle, Lagertha opens a small pouch handed to her by Sinric.

- _"He said: Tell her that I accept I shall never raid again. Tell her I accept to be an outlaw if I ever return to Kattegat. But she – he means you - will. This is a gift from my world to her, to hers. Ragnar is not the only one to try his hand at mind games. After handing me the bag, Rollo laughed. ...And that's all Sinric has told me before returning to the settlers of Normannia. What is this?"_

 _\- "What is inside?"_

The shield maid will open the folded manuscript to stop at observing the strange drawings. The bold colours along white blank spaces; nothing makes sense. The object seems to have been torn away from a Frankish book… She does not understand and pushes it to Bjorn who hands it to his father after a cursory glance.

- _"What sort of joke is this? Is it Christian magic to protect you? Unless it is some sort of art?"  
_

With a firm tsk-tsk, the old king gently, almost fervently pats it down flat, making sure it is really unfurled yet not certain on his layout. Where is the top? And the bottom?

\- _"What do you see, Bjorn?"_

 _\- "Christian scribbles. Rollo is giving Mother some Christian amulet. He has betrayed our Gods like Athelstan did"_

 _\- "Try better"_

With a sigh, Bjorn looks again at the strange piece of manuscript. He sees colours, blue wavy lines and bigger splashes of blue and green. Green and some red lines none of them straight along what Franks use as writings. Asked what he knows is blue, the oldest of Ragnar' sons points at the sky, exasperating his father.

\- _"What else? What else is blue that you… that we all know?_

 _\- "Eyes, Woad? Ink for tattoos? A river as the sky is mirrored int … Rivers! Seas! "_

The three denizens from Kattegat look at the manuscript differently now; this time they start in earnest to make out the map.

\- _"Rivers. Therefore seas here and this small bit is an island … England?"_

 _\- "Where is Kattegat?"_

Lagertha whispers as she is afraid of the answer. Ragnar points at a motley of little islands and a detroit almost touching the top of the page. Athelstan has told him so much, leaving the King with this ache of loneliness, this feeling of amputation. During the siege, when he has reached the top of the walls, for a magical moment, he has been touched by an instant of grace seeing the city in its beauty. This same need has been his about all the fabled lands described by Athelstan. Midgard, the whole of Midgard, seen in one eye span. Midgard is now his, in the blink of one eye. Athelstan has opened for him the doors to the whole world; today, this is the man who will raid no more, who gives his brother the roads, the directions, the keys to Midgard. Ragnar knows now what Odin feels. All this knowledge mixed with this loss of his friend Athelstan. There is no happiness for Ragnar; but there will be some consolation.

Bjorn does not dare to touch the blue vastness surrounded by lands. Ragnar smiles this odd sly smile of his.

 _\- "Naturally, an inland sea would become less dependent on the moon. It would become a sea with almost no tides"_

The parents and their son share a silent but identical thought.

 _\- "A great treasure. Of little value. The world is now ours."_


	23. the end

Afterthoughts

And it ends here.

The princes have found their home. A child has been born to a loving couple; a man has discovered that his father had never rejected him. Never let him down. Learned that never ever his parents had shown a preference between their children.

Ragnarok is not the end of times as we imagine: a twilight of the gods where all ends. It can be the end of our fears, of our uncertainties. Happy endings exist.

Normannia as Normandy is now known, grew up to be an independent duchy, peaceful to Frankia from where the wives of the Nordmanni were issued. And friendly to the roving seafarers of the North. At peace with Kattegat while worshiping Athelstan God of gentle rain.

From the beginning all the signs were there to be seen. As it goes often with mortals, they were not read. The God of Rain can be the God of Thunder; Freyr the fertile God plays the long game while Odin knows that God Christ works in mysterious ways.

We know nothing of what is decided in Asgard, Olympus or behind the Pearly Gates. Fate is not ours though we are free to choose which path of Destiny we enter.

Today, the Gods, the Divine which elude us have been generous to all our characters.

I hope you have enjoyed this tale.

Who knows, maybe next time the Deities may not be as kind. Sleep in peace, while you may, little warrior. You have won … but your first battle. There are many more waiting for you.

Waving good bye to William (yet unknown on the rolling credits) and all the characters. Sincere thanks to all the great actors whose voices and impersonations I have tried to be faithful to. Clive, you are Rollo in all his anger and his search for a better future. Travis, Odin cannot come up with a smarter son. Thanks to Miss Winnick and Alexander. Thanks to all the cast and the crew.

Thank you importantly to the historical advisers who have made real History fans happy. A feat seldom accomplished in supposedly historical TV Series and movies.

Finally thank you Mr Hirst. The characters and this story belong to you. Carry on the good work!

As always, reviews and comments welcome.


End file.
